You Only Die Twice
by Johnny Snowball
Summary: Ian Fleming's master spy meets old friends and enemies when he undertakes a private mission to find a missing Felix Leiter. Arriving in Sunnydale, this personal mission may prove his most difficult yet. Can you hear the Voodoo drums...? S.A.S Episode 3
1. The Englander

The_** Secret Agent Slayer **_Series

**Episode 3**

This is a James Bond/Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover forming the third part of my Secret Agent Slayer Series. Reading this without reading Episode 1 and 2 is perfectly possible. Though it is a crossover, I have placed it under the James Bond section as it is 99 percent from Bond's perspective. I would have placed it under Books but there is no Bond book section. Enjoy!

* * *

Ian Fleming's master spy finds old friends and old enemies when he takes off on his own private mission to find the missing Felix Leiter. Arriving in Sunnydale, California, a mission of revenge may prove his most difficult yet. Can you hear the Voodoo drums…?

* * *

**- _You Only Die Twice_ -**

_The Englander_ / 00**1**

The Magic Box was quiet on this particular day as Anya manned the helm. There'd been an old couple in first thing. When they realised it wasn't a grocery store they'd left pretty sharpish. The only other visit had been from a group of kids looking for bangers and fart bombs. That hadn't stopped Anya from relieving them of 3 bucks for a bundle of explosive Stink-root. She just hoped they remembered to wet it with salted water not drinking water before they used it. She shrugged. After all, if they blew themselves up, they only had themselves to blame. She reflected for a moment on her beloved Xander. Her betrothed. Next year he would be her husband. She was so excited. They had a beautiful apartment, a grand new car – a Jeep Grand Cherokee Overland in a glorious shade of champagne called 'light graystone pearl' – and now Xander was being paid quite fairly by the Watchers' Council. Things were looking bright. At that moment Xander was at home in bed, still recovering from his injuries from the last mission just a week before. He wasn't healing as quickly as Buffy had. Anya noticed the sounds from the back room of the store – the training area – had stopped. Buffy was there with Giles. Every morning for 3 days now they'd been training. Apparently, Buffy wanted to become an expert spy or something. Anya didn't really care so much. As long as people kept coming to her magic shop and spending their money, all was well.

Slightly dishevelled but not as sweaty as usual, Buffy came from the back in a white vest and blue training pants with Giles just behind.

Giles was midway through a lecture as he rounded the counter. "You have to learn how to slow your pace down, Buffy, and control your body weight, or you'll never be able to cross a field of gravel without sounding like a bulldozer."

Buffy sat up at the counter beside the cash register and slumped. "Just tell me I'm fat and clumsy, why don't you?"

"If it were true I would. You know perfectly well what I mean. You want to be a spy. You have to master stealth."

"Stealth smelth."

"Why don't you try to apply some of the techniques on patrol?"

"Because, Giles, patrolling's been a bust. The vamps seem to have better things to do lately and your Slobbu Demon guy doesn't look like he's coming out of hibernation anytime soon. He's a slothful Slobbu."

"Be patient. In seven hundred years since eating the cursed heart he's never woken from his mystical slumber on time."

"Eating a heart that cursed him to sleep for a hundred years. Sleeping Beauty much?"

"Every fable and fairy story has an origin in truth, Buffy."

"Well, Sleeping Beasty better wake up soon or I'm gonna forget what it's _like_ to sleep."

Giles sighed. "Just check his crypt every night until he awakens then speak the incantation to put him to bed for the _next_ hundred years. You remember the words?"

"Of course. Klaatu…varata…necktie." Giles failed to laugh. "I'm joking, jeez. Don't you watch movies?"

Anya screwed up her face and shook her head in disdain. "The Evil Dead movies were terribly inaccurate. Zombie witches don't swallow souls."

Giles was waiting.

"They swallow brains and marrow," Anya continued. "And the occasional phallus."

Giles was still waiting.

Buffy rolled her eyes and let her head loll back as she repeated the incantation like a good little Watcher's pet. "Somnus iterus bestia."

"It's _iterum_," he corrected sternly. "There's no room for error."

The door sounded against the hanging bell as a man entered the store. Buffy caught a glimpse of a well-dressed, tall dark figure before Anya shoved a bunch of ribbons in her hands and pointed to a small stack of gift-wrapped candles that were on special offer.

Anya put on her most insultingly polite smile. "Please make yourself useful."

Buffy gave a harumph and began tying the candles in ribbon. When she looked to see what Anya was doing, she saw the former demon watching the new customer with slits for eyes.

"He looks shifty," she said quietly. "Shifty and dangerous. He's a spender, I can smell it. Might be a warlock."

Buffy followed her eyes and had to agree that the man was definitely on the dangerous-looking side. He was standing at the rack beside the main window eyeing the contents. He glanced their way briefly. Buffy noticed his tall lean figure. He looked calm yet strong and fast, like a coiled spring. His hair was black as coal with a flirtatious and boyish strand hanging down like a black comma over his right eye. The eyes were deadly and cold in their sockets, his nose long, thin and straight, and his mouth a cruel line. But it was the 3-inch scar that ran vertical down his right cheek that gave him the real dangerous edge. Yet he was certainly handsome and in his early to mid thirties, Buffy guessed.

Giles pulled the ribbons from her grasp to finish her work and it brought her back to their side of the room. "I was gonna ask Spike to take care of the Slobbu," she explained, "but he hasn't been in his crypt – err, crib – for the last few nights."

Anya didn't allow her eyes to stray from the tall dark handsome stranger. "Maybe he got so annoyed over the 'forgetting to thank him for being tortured in Japan' thing that he decided to get as far away from you as possible?"

"I meant to thank him…" She realised there was a shadow over her. The dangerous man was at the counter and his eyes, a bright blue-grey she now saw, were smiling at her and, she sensed, analysing her. She felt uncomfortable and flattered all at once and she smiled reflexively.

The man held up a gleaming golden pot the size of an American football that looked like a giant decapitated egg with its insides scooped out. The cruel lips parted and Buffy was surprised by his well-spoken British accent. "I thought I might buy this for a friend. If she asks what it is, what might I tell her?"

Anya's eyes were alight at the sight of his chosen purchase and she almost lost her breath just thinking about the monetary figures. The enthused grin exploded across her face. "That's the Golden Gourd of Fu Manchu used to drink the blood of virgins–"

"Haha," Giles butted in, "she's joking."

"No I'm not–"

Giles went on, "It's a beautiful example of an ancient calabash gourd in gold leaf. Commissioned by Emperor Ch'in Shih-Huang around 210BCE. Hand-crafted by a visiting foreign tribe at his behest during his quest for the elixir of life; his search for the pathway to immortality. The fact it has never decomposed lends to its supposed magical properties and gives some theorists reason to believe that the first Chinese Emperor still lives among us today. Perfect as an ornament, historical piece, or…a flower vase."

The man's brows were raised quite high and his grey-blue eyes were more playful as he spoke to Buffy. "Well that was rather dramatic. I think I'll have to take it for the anecdote alone."

Anya snatched the expensive gourd and Giles moved around to make sure she didn't crush it in her excitement as she boxed it.

"It's surprising to find a fellow Englishman living in the States," the man said to Giles.

"Well, I hale from Bath originally. I'm not a permanent resident. I'm with Universal Personnel. We go where we're needed. And yourself?"

"Southerner also. On vacation at the moment." His piercing eyes still lingered sideways over Buffy.

"Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. Giles, by the way. Rupert Giles."

"Bond. James Bond." He leaned on the counter a little casually and looked around at the trio. "Actually I'm here to meet a friend of mine. He seems to have misplaced himself, however. Felix Leiter's his name. I don't suppose you've seen him around? He has blond hair. And he'd have a limp and a false arm."

Giles wasn't sure if the man was for real. "Um…I'm afraid not."

Anya rang the bill up on the cash register. "Two thousand dollars," she said with an outstretched palm and the whitest smile in the west.

Buffy watched the man with the golden gourd as his face suddenly contorted comically and he stood quite straight.

"I'm certain the card on the shelf said twenty dollars including tax." Though surprised, the man still kept cool as a cucumber.

Anya rushed desperately to retrieve the card from the rack by the front window. When she returned, her face had grown long and red. "There's a decimal point here that shouldn't be here, Giles!"

Giles was aghast. "It's a simple mistake. I'm sure Mr Bond will understand. This is a priceless item available at a remarkably low cost as it is."

Anya's red face was darkening further as she contained the volcano. "No, Giles, the consumer labelling act clearly states that if items are priced lower than intended the advertised price must be applied! You sold the Golden Gourd of Fu Manchu for _twenty_ _dollars_!" She threw the card down and stormed into the back of the store. By the time Giles had taken the man's twenty and returned his receipt, the sound of smacking wood could be heard from the back room. It ended with a splintering crunch.

The man named Bond smiled politely, said thank you, and walked smugly out of the Magic Box, passing Willow on the way.

The young witch came in to find Giles in a zone of his own, drooling down his chin, and Buffy gazing thoughtfully at the door. She looked back to see the man outside lighting a smoke. Had he caused this reaction in her friends? She turned to them quizzically. "Who was _that_?"

Buffy was a million miles away. Her mind drifting back to a recent dark night. Her first night on Slobbu duty. Something the Englander had said ignited a vague memory that, as she cast her mind back, became clearer. A guy with a limp. And what now was obviously a gloved prosthetic arm. He'd been attacked by vampires and now this mysterious dark stranger was after him. The stranger had the clear swagger of a worldly person – one not privy to the dark and spooky side of life. This situation with him and the crippled guy from the other night… it had a gangster smell to it.

"I feel ill," uttered Giles.

Buffy considered the English guy. 'Who was _that_?' Willow had said. Buffy couldn't help but wonder the same thing.

* * *

(This Bond is not Sean Connery or Roger Moore or any other movie version. This is based solely on Ian Fleming's creation. Reading those books was the inspiration for this Secret Agent Slayer series of stories. Sorry if it's strange for readers not familiar with the original Bond.

BACK STORY:

In Ian Fleming's novel LIVE AND LET DIE, Mr Big fed Felix Leiter to the sharks to send Bond a warning message. Felix almost died and lost an arm and leg. Even after this horrific event, Felix remained Bond's most trusted friend and most useful ally. LIVE AND LET DIE was Fleming's second James Bond adventure.)

_**DISCLAIMER**:_

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER is a Registered Trademark of Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

JAMES BOND, in written form, is copyright Ian Fleming (Glidrose) Productions Ltd.

*This is a non-profit unauthorised piece of tie-in fiction and was made for pleasure not for monetary gain.

PICTURES for this story can be viewed on my web page via my FF profile.

_Pictures include:_ A title logo, photos of vehicles, weapons and locations to help with visualising elements of the story. Such as: Bond's cars and Bond's gun.


	2. Minus Two Days

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

--

_Minus Two Days_ / 00**2**

He awoke to the smell of cooking bacon and the sound of birds. For a moment he couldn't recall who he was. His brain, floating in a thick puddle of lethargy, failed to kick in on cue. The veil soon peeled away like the fine soft bed sheet in his hand. James Bond! He reached for the gun under his pillow and it wasn't there. Of course it wasn't there, he realised. He wasn't off in some distant exotic locale on Her Majesty's Service; he was at home in his London flat off King's Road. Yet again. The same situation he had woken to for almost seven months now. This explained his groggy mind as he left sleep behind completely and became fully awake. As he dressed his nakedness in a silky Black Watch tartan robe, he vowed to sharpen his senses this week at the firing range and with some good hardy exercise. He had been out of field duty for far too long. His next case was long overdue.

Bond crossed to his tiled white bathroom, disrobed, and stepped into the glass shower cubicle. He bathed under the scalding hot water for five minutes then took his cold shower to snap him into life and wondered what was wrong with the world. With so much unrest around the globe there must surely be something happening somewhere that threatened Her Majesty's Kingdom. The prospect of another day at the office dampened his already declining spirit.

The delicious smell of brewing coffee filled the flat when Bond returned to his room to put on a pair of worsted trousers and a casual white shirt. The plain red telephone that sat dolefully on his bedside table caught his eye. It was the secure line that linked directly to Headquarters and nowhere else. He willed the damned thing to ring, as it did only in emergencies when M required his services, as it hadn't done for an eternity, as it failed to do on this instance by his force of will.

There was a measure of solace waiting for him as he entered the sitting room and saw the bright light of the morning beaming through the big long windows there. It was late summer and, after weeks of overcast weather, the sun was finally shedding warmth and light onto the heart of England. The drive to work would be a pleasant one at the very least.

_The Times_ was waiting for him on the breakfast table and he sat, lazily scanning the headlines of the day. The new war on terror took the pole position on the front page. For Bond, a man accustomed to fighting secret wars that aimed to prevent global ones, it was devastating to see.

As he thumbed through he found the usual scope of topics. PM Blair was under fire once again as his popularity fell. Due, in today's report, to healthcare problems, pension problems and Britain's battle against the Euro (Bond could think of no greater sin, no greater threat to the country, than that of waving off the Great British Pound). He turned to the travel section out of interest and saw the heading: _See how far your pound goes_. Not far when you're stuck in London, Bond thought with a slight sneer.

The door to the kitchen opened and May, his cherished Scottish housekeeper, entered with a serving trolley. May was an elderly woman and her hair a pewter shade of grey, yet her warm face was still considerably fine and majestic. As she laid out his breakfast, Bond's mind was somewhere far away flying through a haze on autopilot. He was drowning once again in the soft life. The fact his breakfast was prepared for him without his waking signal was the stark warning of how routine his life had become. After waking he hadn't even felt the energy to do his exercises, which he now realised had been absent for some time. Even his recent golf and baccarat had suffered.

He made a plan: book time today on the shooting range to train his eye, take a high-stakes trip to Blades at the weekend to train his mind, get back to swimming and exercise to train his body, and challenge Bill Tanner to a golf tournament at all the regional clubs just for the pleasure. He became aware that May had finished laying the table for him and was waiting for some kind of sign he was alive. Before him was his regular perfect breakfast. When at home, he liked his favourite meal to be just so. Always the same: strong black De Bry coffee, two slices of wholewheat toast and a selection of Jersey butter, jam, marmalade and honey. But, rather than his usual brown speckled boiled egg, boiled for precisely three and a third minutes, was a scrambled egg platter laced with herbs and cheese. Though he noticed this clear diversion from the norm, it barely registered and he went ahead, picking up his fork and taking a healthy bite.

When Bond didn't comment, May spoke up in her deep Highland brogue: "I took the liberty o' trying something a wee bit diff'rent from your usual fare, Mr James. I thought p'rhaps your days were growing a tad mundane?" She gave him a smile that radiated concern and sympathy. "I hope I did'ne act out o' turn."

"What? Of course not, May. It's quite delicious, thank you." He took a second mouthful and analysed it more closely. He could detect the pepper, salt, coriander and Red Leicester cheese, but there was something else that evaded him. "What did you add?"

"Why, that's a family secret! Now, you just eat up and if you'd like your usual egg just give me a shout."

He smiled and she left him to his meal.

By 8:15 Bond had finished breakfast and had dressed in a dark blue serge suit and was prepared for the fifteen-minute drive to work. As an after-thought, he remembered to shave. He had to find some way of snapping himself out of his soft, idle state of mind.

--

Bond left home a little after 8:30, driving out of Chelsea with the warmth of the sun drifting in through his open window. The 1965 Bentley S3 responded well under his forceful direction. It was his new 6.2L with the Rolls Royce V8 engine in gunmetal grey. It had the classic elegance that the later T1 lacked and, so far as Bond was concerned, it was not as garish as modern cars tended to be. The Bentley still appealed to him especially with its underdog relationship to the Rolls Royce. But the Rolls was too much a pop-culture item. He loathed being associated with the tides of fashion trends. He liked things his way and the Bentley still stood for something in Bond's book. The 'Bentley Boys' created a high performance machine that even raced against Le Train Bleu from Cannes to Calais, by ferry to Dover and finally to London… and won! They were the racing champions of the late 20's. Their cars reflected himself – rugged, reliable and durable. This new car was a strong and beautiful replacement for his old supercharged Blower. He kept the mission and dream of Bentley alive as he gunned the car up King's Road…then had to slow for the speed cameras and road-bumps around Buckingham Palace Gardens.

The V8 was a perfect beast for Bond – 2 straight-4 engines on a common crankshaft. He went with the racing common crankshaft to avoid the uneven firing into the exhaust manifolds of the crossplane, which interfered with engine tuning, the heavy counterweight preventing rapid acceleration. Bond didn't mind the one clear side effect of the common crankshaft engine – the vibration. He loved it. It felt like riding bareback on thunder. It was power in his hands.

Reaching Hyde Park Corner, he followed the single lane of one-way traffic at a crawl onto Park Lane. He circled around Cumberland Gate and took off on the long race along Gloucester Place and back onto the main 2-way traffic on Marleybone. He followed it slowly up to Albany Street where he turned off left and sped the circumference of Regent's Park and across Prince Albert Road. Regent's Park passed him by in full sunlit bloom. Resplendent in shades of green brown and red with the tall spires of the evergreens standing proud around Queen Mary's Gardens where Bond could picture the pink and white tulips in late blossom. The park surrounding them would be fragrant with the smell of the rose gardens. It was summer at last in Bond's quiet little neck of the woods.

Soon he came to the high grey office block that was HQ and he pulled the Bentley into the Mews behind it. Handing over his keys to the valet at the car pool, he enjoyed the short walk around to the main entrance where the smells of the Park lingered stronger.

--

When James Bond reached his office at Universal Exports on the 7th floor, the secretary to the Double-0 section welcomed him with her usual pleasant manner.

"Good morning, James." Mary Goodnight, a fine woman with a handsome figure and a cascade of shoulder-length blue-black hair, so well conditioned it almost shone white in the sunlight, offered him her everyday morning smile.

"Good morning, Goodnight. I suppose we're all set for another day at the office?"

"Oh, don't be such a grump. Aren't you going to ask me how it went?"

Bond looked on, feeling like he'd missed a beat. Had the days become so tedious he'd blanked them out of his mind all together? Then he remembered. Her date yesterday evening! He let his lips curl up at the corners knowingly. "Did you have a good night, Goodnight?"

"It was…quite pleasant. Bordering on enjoyable."

Bond hissed. "Sounds dire. I hope you didn't do anything indecent."

She narrowed her eyes in good humour. "Actually he had a few whisky and sodas too many and I had to send him home in a taxi."

"Too bad," Bond said with lying eyes.

"I'm beginning to wonder if there's a man out there I can truly…_bond_ with."

He gave her his most charming grin and gladly side-tracked the subject: "I'd kill for a whisky and soda."

"Now, James, you'll do no such thing." She handed him a set of files. "I was about to drop these in your inbox."

Bond took the documents from her begrudgingly. "Mary, as a secretary you're a dream. But you'd make a terrible waitress." He went into his office and closed the door to set about his mundane work of signing off on the day's dockets and looking over the previous night's signals.

He'd been working less than two hours and was halfway through the latest report on North Korean brainwashing methods when Mary buzzed him on the intercom. He pushed from his mind the thoughts of drugs, shock treatment and behavioural conditioning, and answered the call.

"You're wanted upstairs, James."

It was Bond's dream; come true at last. Finally, after 6 months and 18 days of nothing, it looked like he was going to be let out of London and projected across the world to act as the blunt instrument of the Service. He couldn't be happier.

When he came through from his office, Mary had a sympathetic smile for him.

"I wouldn't get too excited," she said. "He didn't sound in any rush to see you."

That didn't bode well. Moneypenny, M's Personal Assistant, could usually sense from the old man's tone if it was a routine chat, bad news, or a big new case and pass that on to Mary. No rush meant nothing good.

--

The ride in the lift to the top floor was disheartening and the walk along the soft carpet of the corridor to M's office was filled with uncertainty. What could possibly be so non-urgent?

The adorable Miss Moneypenny was at her post in the office adjacent to M's.

"Penny."

Her neutral face and polite smile betrayed nothing. "007's here, sir," she reported into her intercom.

M called for him to be sent right in. The green light came to life over M's door and Bond gave Moneypenny a sideways 'here goes nothing or something' look.

As he passed through the dual doors to the most important room in the building, there were two signs James Bond was looking out for to hint at the reason for his being called to the headmaster's office. First, he would look at the old man's mood. Second, and most important, he would be listening for the title by which M would call him. If it was 'James', it was something personal, either to him or to M. if it was '007', it was business. He closed the door behind him.

Vice Admiral Sir Miles Messervy, head of the British Secret Intelligence Service, was sat at his elegant mahogany desk, reading from a file. He half looked up and waved a hand for Bond to come in and sit. As Bond took the chair across from the man he held in such great esteem, he noted how bored he appeared as he finished up with his signature on the brown file and closed it. Everyone, Bond thought, seemed stuck in routine.

M slid the old file away leaving just one small paper before him on the desk's red leather surface. "I'm afraid I have to give you some bad news," he said flatly as he picked his pipe out of the ashtray. "But first, I must ask you a question, 007."

Bond sat up. Business it was, then. Was someone in trouble? He hoped it wasn't him. It wouldn't pay to guess, as M was about to spill the beans anyway.

"We've been contacted," he began seriously, filling his pipe with tobacco, "by Station A on behalf of the CIA."

That meant the American Central Intelligence Agency had been in touch through the British Secret Service section in the States.

"We were asked a very specific question directed at you, 007." He seemed somewhat perturbed to be performing this secretarial service, his grey eyes overcast as they looked at him, and he simply fired the question as it was written on the paper in his hand. "Have you at any time recently been in contact with Felix Leiter regarding his current project, or received any message from him of relevance to said project?"

Bond sat forward now. Someone was in trouble after all and it looked like it was poor old Felix. He wondered what his friend had got mixed up in this time. He opened his mouth in surprise before answering at length, "I haven't heard from him in a while, sir. Last he told me, he was still with Pinkerton's under Securitas AB. Is Felix… is he dead, sir?"

"They haven't been very forthcoming with details. The message was short and simple as you have heard. But the information from Station A is that Mr Leiter is considered missing in action." M's pipe was now lit and he gave it a few good tugs. His grey eyes warmed a little behind the smoke. "You've spent time in the field with Mr Leiter I believe? He was your friend?"

Bond nodded. "A good man, sir. And a damn fine ally."

"He may turn up," M said, trying to push the awkward moment aside. "If there's no reply to pass on then the matter is closed. They'll be informed promptly of your position on the matter. That will be all, 007."

Bond stood up slowly in a daze and began to move out.

"One more thing," M mentioned as Bond reached the door. "Did you find time to memorise the new ciphering methods?"

"Yes. I spent most of yesterday doing so. Don't worry, sir, the documents were destroyed before I left the office."

"Good show." M must have picked up on Bond's mood as he fumbled for something reassuring to say. "It might interest you to know we've received a report from Head of T. It seems a certain Al-Abu Ja'far may be inclined to defect in the near future. If it works out, we'll need someone to bring him in. No guarantees of course. You know how fragile these matters can be."

Bond tried to smile for M before he left and closed the door.

--

Back in his office, Bond sat in his tie-less white silk shirt and smoked a string of Morland Specials and looked out of his high window distantly. He couldn't fathom how Felix had become involved in something dangerous enough to make him disappear off the face of the planet. He was practically retired, for God's sake! Bond looked to his desk and saw the open file there where he'd left it. It was at the paragraph that talked about forms of aversive conditioning using artificial choice situations as a way to suppress specific attitudes. The words hanging under Bond's sights read:

_The systematic application of electric shocks as was widely used in the treatment of alcoholism, homosexuality and other forms of so-called deviant behaviour. For instance, an alcoholic, wired to a shock-generating device will be presented with two choices: a mixed alcoholic drink or a soft drink such as ginger ale. If the subject reaches for the alcoholic drink, he will automatically be shocked._

At that moment, Bond felt he could handle the flow of a power station to get his hands on a hard drink. He reached for his Turkish and Balkan blend cigarettes again to find he was down to his last. He smoked it slowly and held the smoke in his lungs before pushing it out through ground teeth. He finished and crushed the butt. He checked his watch. It was just after twelve. Bond decided to go for his dinner break and use the opportunity to stock up on Specials.

He passed Mary on his way out as he grabbed his suit jacket.

"I'm taking lunch."

--

At Morlands of Grosvenor Street, James Bond picked up his order of 200 Morland Specials with the 3 gold bands around the filters. He was halfway home already so decided to finish off the fish from last night as his lunch. Leftovers, yes, but delicious none the less.

He soon pulled the Bentley up outside his flat. May was out, shopping most likely, and Bond quickly fried a salmon steak in lemon and ate it with lightly seasoned rice then stole the last four profiteroles from the fridge. He was cleaning up when he saw the late-morning mail left for him beside the sink. A postcard, and a card from the sorting office to say he had excess to pay on the postage. He checked the postcard, wondering who the hell had the nerve to mail him a card without proper postage and expect him to pay for it. It had the blue airmail sticker and was ink stamped in the U.S. The lacquered front surface bore a scene of Sunnydale beach, California. Bond stood bemused. He turned the card again to read the message. The plain side bore only, apart from the stamping, his own address – written in a slapdash fashion, a symbol – the letter P with an X over the stem, and one word:

_Blonde_.

It wasn't signed but, after only moments of examining the rough scrawl, bond easily recognised Felix Leiter's handwriting. His good friend had got a message to him after all.

--

Bond rushed back to the plain grey building of the Secret Service to find Mary was on her break. He called up to Penny himself and asked if he could put in an urgent request for leave. One week, maybe two, starting from tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, she called back. M wanted to see him again. Bond wasn't surprised. He knew M as well as M knew him.

A few minutes later and Bond found himself again sat across from M with the sun burning through the windows.

Sir Miles' grey eyes were more alive now as he asked the purpose of his agent's request for leave. Bond invented some excuse about sightseeing in the States.

M mulled it over suspiciously. "So long as you don't intend to go gallivanting off on some private crusade of a rescue mission. Leave it to the CIA. They know what's going on."

Had that been M's way of sanctioning, unofficially of course, what Bond was about to do? Had it even included carefully worded orders? Go on your crusade, but go through the CIA because they know more about the situation than we do. They have the required information. Was that M's message? Whether or not it was so, it was exactly what Bond had in mind and it was precisely what he intended to do. With or without the approval of his chief.

-

When Bond returned to his office, having been granted one week's leave, Mary Goodnight was back at her desk. He instructed her to book him time in the shooting gallery and to get him on a night flight from Heathrow to LAX.

"This is strange, James. You usually take holidays after a tough assignment. You aren't about to do something regretful, are you?"

"Certainly not, Mary. Now, be a darling and send this through Station A to Jack Wade of the CIA." He jotted a short message down on a post-it-note and handed it over.

Reluctantly, she complied, and Bond went down to Q Branch to pick up the latest anti-detection concealment tray for his suitcase.

After that, he took a trip to the Armoury to replace his old warn triple-draw Berns-Martin holster and was pleased with his new Safariland horizontal shoulder holster in black leather. He was impressed by the ergonomic precision as the gun holster sat comfortable under his left arm and the double mag pouch was ideally placed beneath his right. He was told the weight of the unit would be distributed over his shoulders rather than the neck, as with older designs. The Armourer, Major Boothroyd, tried as best he could to replace Bond's Walther PPK with the P99 But Bond was having none of it. They'd already forced him to lose the Beretta he was so fond of. The PPK was part of him now. He knew its every part better even than he'd known the Beretta and it had never let him down.

Alone in the gunsmith's room, he took out his PPK and laid it on the steel bench, looking it over. It was a straight blow-back operated semi-automatic with traditional double-action/single-action trigger mechanism. 7.65mm with a 7-round mag and one chambered. 3.2 inch barrrel, 6.1 inch in length and 20.8 ounces. Polymer and alloy frame, slide and barrel of carbon steel with a harsh weather finish. The grip was a black polymer wraparound with curved backstrap.

Disassembling the weapon was simplicity itself. Bond removed the magazine and emptied the chamber. Pulling down the trigger guard, he dragged the slide fully back and pulled it up to remove it. He laid the parts out before him on the table: guide rod and spring, barrel, slide, and frame. Now it was ready for cleaning and lubrication.

Also on the table, spread out like a buffet, was the gunsmith's cleaning kit: bore brush, aluminium cleaning rod, tips and patches, liquid powder solvent, bottle of gun oil and a small tube of gun grease. He set about lovingly servicing the life-saving tool of his trade, spurred on by the thought of applying himself to an important task once again.

-

With his gun scoured and oiled it was ready for a test run, as was he. In the basement pistol shooting range, Bond practised drawing from his new shoulder holster until the action was as smooth and quick as he felt possible. He planned to wear the holster until he packed that evening to break it in. Removing his suit jacket, he put on the earmuffs and goggles, loaded the Walther and clicked the safety off. He would have much preferred an outdoor test at the Ham & Petersham rifle and pistol club with the sun on his back, but time was limited. He set the stationary paper target at 25 metres and lined the sights up with the Walther's front post centred against the rear notch. He was alone in the room so there was no pressure on his ego as he let the Walther pop seven times in his grip. He called the target back on its conveyor and judged himself at about 90. For the next half-hour he kept going until his aim was up to his usual sharp-shooting level at 75 metres then he returned to the office to tie up his work before preparing for his journey to America.

-

At home, he stowed his gun with its holster in the secret tray of his suitcase. With them he added various passports, an M.o.D. issue Fairbairn Sykes commando knife with leg scabbard, and a small Scottish Sgian Dubh stainless steel dagger with rosewood handle and leather sheath.

He dressed for the long trip as if a tourist heading off on vacation in a light airy pair of casual cream worsted trousers and a light blue loose shirt and slipped on his brown casual shoes. He placed the postcard in his shirt pocket, carried the case out to the Bentley and set out in the dark for the M4 to Heathrow.

--

For most of the British Airways flight, between short naps and plain food, James Bond spent his time dwelling on what he might be flying toward. Not far from his thoughts was his old pal – the tall scrawny Texan with the mop of straw hair.

Felix worked for Pinkerton's, now a subsidiary of Securitas, specialising in background checking, security assessments, protection, investigation and cyber surveillance. 'Total security solutions' as Leiter had put it, with tongue firmly in cheek, the last time they had spoken. He was mostly training staff these days in the Investigative Department as a Security Professional. As a former CIA operative, however, Felix was always on their reserve list and could be called on at any time. But why had an old battered war-horse like Leiter been called to arms? That was the first question Bond wanted an answer to. All he had to go on for the moment was the postcard in his shirt pocket. The strange symbol – the P with an X across it – looked to him possibly religious in nature. Maybe Catholic. And the single word: 'Blonde'.

Knowing Felix, the significance of that simple word would be more than the sum of its parts. Bond was of the mind that his friend, having strict orthographical ideals concerning word and form, would view the spellings 'blond' and 'blonde' as being male and female respectively. This meant Felix was telling him the blonde was a woman. It still didn't give him much to go on since California had perhaps a higher percentage of blondes than half of western civilisation. But the postcard did manage to narrow his scope to a place he'd never heard of before: Sunnydale. The beach on the picture looked welcoming enough and, seeing as it was summer, seemed a promising enough destination.

-

He hit the tar of Los Angeles International Airport at 7am Pacific Standard Time and made his way slowly through immigration where his passport, in the name of Perigrine Carruthers of Transworld Consortium, was stamped across his tourist visa waiver. After collecting his single suitcase, he moved out into the Arrivals lounge where a sharp-suited young man was waiting with a sign in his false name.

"Mr Carruthers? I'm with Federated." – that meant FBI – "J.W. sent me to collect you. We have a car waiting, this way please. How was your flight?"

Bond engaged in the small talk as they moved out of the crowded airport to the loading area where a rather obvious car waited. It was a jet black Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor polished to a royal standard and it screamed 'FBI'. He allowed the young gofer to place his bag in the boot as he dropped into the back seat. The sun scorched this particular side of the earth and the California heat was stifling. He wound down the window and the young agent, who identified himself as Williamson, drove them out of LAX onto the Imperial Highway and toward Downtown.

It was a twenty-minute journey that took them to the FBI field office at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard. Williamson led Bond up to suite 1700 where he found a small group of men; one of which he knew was not with the Bureau. Jack Wade, in a tropical shirt and straw hat.

"Jack. Good to see you."

"Jimbo."

Bond hated the name but it was Jack's way and he smiled as they shook hands firmly.

Jack introduced an FBI rep before indicating the other two men. "These are agents Brooks and Fairchild," said the loud portly Yank. "They're with NCS." – the National Clandestine Service of the CIA.

Bond gave their soft clammy hands a shake in turn and allowed Jack to lead him to the comfortable chairs in a quiet corner by a high open window. The others hung back.

Wade got straight down to business, which Bond was grateful for. "Ever heard of The Cuban?"

"That the Robusto or the Panatela?"

"Not the cigar, Jim, the pyromaniac."

Bond remembered reports from a couple years back. "Ahh… the terror bomber? A fireraiser. But isn't he some kind of bogeyman? Never leaves a trace?"

"Right. Jury's still out on that. His involvement in any crime can't be confirmed forensically as the crimes attributed to him leave no evidence of explosives or incendiaries. It's become the trademark of a boogieman. Whether he could be a pyro or a simple arsonist is conjecture. But, looking at the majority of targets from a strategic point of view, they seem less random than you'd expect from a run-of-the-mill psychotic firebug. Military targets, civil disorders, both political and fear-inspiring non-political terrorism. It's more likely he's a hired gun. If he's real, I'd bet my straw hat he's a job-by-job merc."

Bond nodded. "Explains his elusiveness. Mercenaries are good at flying under the radar. Possibly ex-military."

"Sure. The point is; he came up last week on the FBI radar. Like a bad smell, they caught a whiff in the air of The Cuban."

"How so?"

"Anonymous tip. I know, sounds flimsy, but it didn't come about so obviously. We were informed that a Mexican explosives expert responsible for the 92' Israeli embassy and 94' AMIA bombings, as well as several attacks in Lebanon, was holed up in Sunnydale, a small town just a few kilometres north of here. Officially, those attacks were unsolved, as there was no trace evidence. For this reason the FBI has always suspected The Cuban was behind it."

"But if this Cuban fellow's a ghost…?"

"Right. He's on the Seeking Information list of their counterterrorism division. He'd be on their Most Wanted Terrorist list but, like you said, the guy's no more than a wisp. He's smoke. Mythical even. No real name, no information. Faceless."

"Then what made them take this tip seriously enough to investigate it without something concrete?"

"That's where your pal Felix comes into it. He came closest a couple of years ago to getting the real scoop on the guy but nothing that's ever been confirmed. The thing of it is; Felix Leiter maintained the belief that this Cuban is in fact a Mexican. See now how the pieces fit? It was enough for the CIA to bring him in when the FBI came knocking."

"And you sent him off on this goose chase?"

Wade opened his thick arms. "Jim, you know Leiter as well as anyone. He's persuasive. Even managed to wrangle the reins of the case and take over. I guess he wanted to prove a point."

"Desperate for the action more like it, the bloody fool." Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case and lit himself a Morland.

"Well it looks like he found action after all." Wade sat back while Bond considered their conversation.

So, Felix had gone hunting for a mythical beast and vanished in the process. After some thought, he asked; "When did he last report in?"

"He didn't," replied Wade. "He disappeared the day he left for Sunnydale. Never even checked in to say he was there. But he did check in to a hotel. That was five days ago."

Bond reached into his shirt pocket. "Help me with something, Jack. This symbol… any idea what it represents?" He showed him the postcard.

Wade took it, examined it with interest and handed it back. "Looks Christian. Maybe something to do with Constantine. I haven't been to church in a long while. Any help?"

"Not really. I already had it tied to religion."

The American rubbed his hands together eagerly. "So it looks like Felix brought you into the game."

"I'm keen to find him, Jack. He's always been around just when I needed him. I feel I should do the same in return."

"I can see that. I'll have my people talk to your people and see if we can't get you signed on."

"I appreciate that."

"Always better to be gettin' paid, eh? Hell, prob'ly a good thing you're here anyway. If Leiter got caught out then someone's gonna be expecting CIA. What they won't be looking for is a suave British tourist with a license to kill." Bond didn't look so enthused. "You still got a licence to kill, right Jimmyboy?"

"When necessary, Jack."

"Right. The reluctant killer. We'll get you a car from downtown – I know, with a manual stick."

"And preferably not too garish. Certainly not a Police Interceptor."

"You're such a British snob, James. Anything else you need? Gear? Got your piece? Then let's get started."

"One last thing. Where did he stay?"

--

Driving a Swedish/American Saab 9000 that Jack had rented for him from Hertz, Bond took the coastal roads up to Sunnydale at speed. It was a second-generation 95' model in midnight blue and with a whopping 3.0L V6 engine that delivered 210 horsepower. He raced most of the 2-hour ride in fifth gear but dropped to fourth and finally third as he came to the small-town restrictions on the final approach into Sunnydale. He'd made no stops on the way, keen to get to the bottom of the situation. He fully expected to find his friend and, when he did, he would thank him for getting him out of the office.

He followed the highway through Breaker's Woods until he came to the large and ghastly yellow sign that welcomed him to Sunnydale and invited him to enjoy his stay. He analysed what he had learned about the place as he passed into it.

Sunnydale was on the borderline between town and city with a 34'000 population count that had been steadily falling over the years. It was large enough to house 43 churches, numerous parks, lakes, creeks, factories, a beach on the Pacific Ocean, a port, a train station, a bus station, a small airport and a small military base, and yet seemed to have only one modest main street of shops and businesses. It was surrounded by several woods with nearby cliffs and a hydroelectric dam and beyond that a harsh desert. And, as he drove through, he found it to be a generic California town. Quite plain and less than interesting.

-

When James Bond pulled into the Downtowner Motel at two in the afternoon and had a quick look at the place, he wondered what in the hell had possessed Leiter to stay in such a dive. He parked the car in a bay on the forecourt and stepped out for a better look. He soon realised there was no better look. The 25 a night sign in the office window gave him a clear indication of what he could expect. The place had the air of an over-ground sewer. The two-floor building was rendered and painted, he assumed, white and powder blue, though it was hard to say through the grime of rain and vehicle pollution. The neon signpost was huge in pink and blue. 'MOTEL', it read, with 'Downtowner Apts.' below. He was sorry to see the glowing red vacancy notice beneath that.

On one side of the road the motel was flanked by the trailing edge of Miller's Woods and on the other side the beginnings of downtown Sunnydale.

Bond walked across the tarmac forecourt to the office. The reception desk was manned by what Bond could only describe as a demon. A horrible old creature of a man with thick matted hair whose face bore the deep scalpel gouges of a haphazard sculptor and whose teeth were stained rotten with tobacco and drink.

Leiter had stayed here, for God knows what purpose, in room 13 (unlucky for some) and his bags were now in storage here until such a time as his employer collected them. He couldn't risk telling the man he was here on behalf of Leiter's employers to collect the bags and check for clues. All it took was for this guy to talk to someone and his cover could evaporate overnight. He was an English tourist and he planned on sticking with that as long as it suited him.

Bond asked for a room. Remarkably the man didn't greet him or speak at all as he lifted key 20 from the wall rack and slid it across the desk, his hand still laying over it. Bond recognised the gesture. There was an exchange to be made.

He dug into his pocketbook and laid down a twenty and a five. "I'll be paying daily then, I take it?" As he said this he looked past the man, who was processing the cash, and saw the door to the rear office. He wondered if Felix' bags were in there somewhere.

The man was silent and Bond realised his key was free. He snatched it up. He didn't even want to ask if they did breakfast. An empty moment passed awkwardly before Bond returned to the Saab for his case. Looking back as he went, the man was back to whatever he had previously been passing the time with – a crossword, perhaps. Bond shook the cold shiver off his back at the thought of the demon deskman and set to work moving in.

-

James Bond hauled his luggage across the car park, up an exterior staircase to the second floor, along to the very end of the deck, opened the walnut veneered door of apartment 20 and surveyed the room. The walls were very plain and grey and a red-beige carpet, far from the cleanest he'd seen, covered the floor. The paintwork on the door architrave and skirting boards was yellowed and permanently stained. The bed was large but not in the best shape and overlaid with a duvet that may or may not have been changed since the last occupancy. The ugly 70's pseudo-Hawaiian curtains on the two small windows were just the icing. There was a modest closet, a toilet and bathroom with shower and the main door had only a simple lock and chain. But it wasn't the room Bond wanted.

He threw his suitcase up on the bed and released the secret tray on the underside. Within minutes, he had removed the spring-lock handles from his door using the edge of the Sgian Dubh dagger as a makeshift screwdriver and pulled the spring out of place. He replaced the handles and confirmed that the lock no longer functioned. He then replaced the knife and the tray, picked up the case and headed back along the high deck. On his way, he made certain there was no one in room 13 before descending the stairs and returning to reception.

"There seems to be a problem with the locking mechanism on my door. How about room 13? That one looks promising. And I'll have a better view of my car from there."

The man showed no sign of human emotion as he silently handed Bond the key to 13 then pointed to a sign behind his head:

'PARKING 10 per night'.

Bond let off a sigh and parted with another pair of fives.

-

He checked in to Felix Leiter's room. It was as he feared. No better than the last apartment. At least he wouldn't have to worry about rats or roaches. He doubted anything but the most desperate human would set foot in the place.

He left his bag at the door and began to search. He checked under the bed, inside the duvet and pillowcases, under and behind the drawers and units, inside the toilet cistern, and everywhere else Felix could possibly have left clues. He did so out of routine, though never really expected to find anything. Leiter had vanished so suddenly that his luggage had still been here. If there were clues to be found in the motel room, the message on the postcard would have been 'Downtowner Apts. Room 13'. No, Bond considered, his lead was the woman with the blonde hair and the P X symbol that would surely take him to her.

When he finished the search, he unpacked his dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt, navy blue tropical worsted trousers and black leather sandals from his case and draped them over a rickety chair. He didn't unpack the rest yet. If he could come up with a concrete lead, he planned to move into more inviting quarters elsewhere.

He showered quickly in the grubby bathtub and dressed in the fresh clothes. A shoulder holster would show too obviously through his casual shirt, Bond decided, and he left it behind. Instead he opted for the commando knife strapped above his right ankle. Safety first, he thought. When he finally completed his self-defence manual, he'd have to do a _health and safety __à la __Bond_ manual. He ran a comb through his hair and went out to find a church.

-

Faced again with the tight-lipped man at the motel reception desk, Bond posed his question. He purposely avoided asking the question in such a way that a yes/no answer could be given (no doubt by means of a silent nod or shake of the head). He asked _where_ he could find the nearest Catholic church. The dry cracked lips of the sickly old goat peeled back into a sneer and he passed Bond a map of the town.

Outside, Bond opened the folded chart across the Saab's bonnet and examined the cartoonish signs representing everything from stores to bus stops. He was quickly directed by the numerous cross symbols to the nearest church in town. It wasn't far – he estimated just five minutes by foot – so he walked there steadily and began to get a feel of the town. Life here, he gathered, would be slow, quiet and dull. He hoped to find the small pockets of excitement that would no doubt exist in such a superficially restful location. Most of all he hoped he could find a decent restaurant about the place.

The church was called Saint Alphonsus and was one of those typical showy American places of worship. Flanked by palm trees, the wide railed steps led up to a simple rectangular building of white clapboard with arches and windows edged in grey paint. What gave it obtrusive pizzazz were the tall twin white towers in modern Mediterranean style that rose up on each front-facing corner. Each was topped with open-arched octagonal spires capped with shining copper crucifixes. Utterly overdone, he thought. The grey-painted double doors were open wide and James Bond mounted the steps and went inside.

The Parish Priest was a man named Pastor Bartholomew St Louis, a small rotund fellow, in his fifties perhaps, with close-set brown eyes and a red bulbous nose. His manner was inviting and he was eager to assist when Bond showed him the postcard and asked if he could help identify the symbol.

"Yes, of course." He spoke with a deep and serene voice. "Ah, that's the Chi Rho. The first two letters for Christ in Greek. Constantine used it on his labarum banner in the early fourth century. It became his imperial insignia – his soldiers wore it on their helmets and shields. It was later introduced on coins and medallions of the time. By 350CE it could be found on anything from frescoes to sarcophagi."

"How might it be relevant to Sunnydale?" Bond enquired.

"If you believe in legends there is one that places a cult of Constantine in this area around 400 years ago. Some say his ancestor was their Supreme Elder, or spiritual guardian depending on which version you hear." He smiled. "The Elders are said to be entombed here in Sunnydale though I can't vouch for that. But there certainly is a crypt in town with this symbol."

"I'd like to find it."

"A follower of legend, are you? The crypt you're looking for is at Heaven's Gate Cemetery. Do you have a map–? Ah, yes, I see you do." He pointed to Heaven's Gate on Bond's town plan. "You won't miss the crypt – it's the largest structure in the centre of the garden."

"Thank you, Father."

"God be with you."

Bond set out again into the sunshine and went to collect the Saab and a few supplies.

--

Heaven's Gate. The cemetery was old and full to bursting point. It was a massive graveyard – an expanse of death markers with headstones stacked upon headstones like a crazy man's domino rally. To the centre James Bond saw a wall of trees and high hedges with topiary gargoyles carved from the lush evergreen privet, and over the top of these rose the steep peak of a grey box. The Constantine crypt.

The sun was beginning its downward arc and playing peekaboo behind the rolling clouds. A slight wind brushed the summer heat along in cooling waves as Bond approached the stone chamber. It was a 20-foot wide block of weathered limestone bricks with a thick timber door. Above this rose an arrow-like decorative gable end. At its centre was the large carved letter P overlaid by X; the Chi Rho. This was surely the place.

Bond took a look around. He walked the circuit of the mausoleum then tried the door. The handle was strong black iron with a thumb latch and a hard tug brought the heavy door swinging open. The doorway yawned at him like a huge black mouth. It was pitch. Not a ray of light penetrated the dark inside. But the fusty smell of age and rot happily came out and shared its foul odour with him. He dragged out his black Ronson lighter and sparked it. It offered some light and he wondered how long it would burn before the gas ran out. And then, if he wanted a cigarette…

Bond went hastily back to the car, parked at the gates, and searched around the spare tyre in the boot for a torch. He found one and returned to the limestone cave. Inside he found a large stone tomb sunk partly into the slabbed ground covered with a single great stone tablet. Around it, adorning the walls, were the ornate sarcophagi of chiselled knights in armour with swords and shields all bearing the Chi Rho. But he found nothing that was useful in his case. Bond felt certain this was the place he was meant to be. But how it would lead him to the prize was still an enigma. With no other lead at this time, he decided he could afford to spend the rest of the day on a stakeout. There was something to be found here. Either he wasn't looking hard enough or it wasn't the right time yet. He moved away from the stone sepulchre and sat himself on a low memorial slab behind a large gothic headstone some metres away. From there he was hidden but still able to view the tomb.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was waiting for. The blonde, perhaps? Part of him hoped so. An even smaller part of him wondered if, with his final act, Felix had tried to simply hook his old friend up with a date. Bond smiled. That would be typical of the old P.I.

He waited there for almost two hours until the sun sank and drew in the dusk and his stomach began to grumble. It was then he realised he hadn't eaten for a good part of the day. To hell with it, Bond determined. He got up and walked back to the Saab with a cold aching backside.

It took him less than thirty minutes to eat and change into black jeans and a black sweater. By the time he went back to the Heaven's Gate necropolis, with a petrol station sandwich, yoghurt and coffee inside him, the sky was already dark as soot. Blending into the night, he went back and sat on the cold hard slab and waited. He was beginning to feel fatigue biting at his members but he was determined to get somewhere with his search. Every day that Felix was missing made his safe rescue more unlikely.

An hour passed on the night watch and Bond's eyes were growing strained and the lids heavy. His eyes fluttered for just a second but when he snapped awake it was to the feint sound of singing. He was suddenly alert and pumping adrenaline. From behind his stone hiding place came the soft and uneven sound of 80's bubble-gum pop karaoke sang with a shaky vocal. This faded out as he heard the creaking of the heavy crypt door.

James Bond moved forward and leaned against the large headstone for a better look. The door to the Constantine vault was open and he vaguely made out a female voice. The speaker seemed to be having an in-depth conversation but with whom he could not say. There were no other sounds but for the slight rustle of distant trees. He saw torchlight bounce around inside the crypt for just a few seconds before it clicked off and a petite girl appeared in the doorway, apparently talking animatedly to herself.

"Slobbu, Slobbu, wherefore art thou, Slobbu? Dawn was right. She really isn't the laziest creature on the planet." She looked lazily about as if for a sign of something. "I told Giles let sleeping Slobbus' lie but no. This's gotta be the longest slay in the history of slayage."

Bond's eyes focused in on the form of the girl. She was slim and short – about 5'3'', but proportionate. She wore a thin black leather jacket over blue frilly top with a heavy pewter crucifix on a chain about her neck. Her well-shaped legs were held in light blue figure-hugging jeans that accentuated her tight-cheeked rear and ended in a pair of heeled black boots. Her eyes were large and glowing in the moonlight, her hair tied back in a loose knot with ringlets. They were blonde ringlets. Honey blonde! She had to be the one. Though how Felix could know she would be here escaped him. She wasn't the woman he had envisioned. She was young, maybe 20.

The girl stepped out drowsily from the crypt enclosure and parked herself on the nearest boxy gravestone. She was quiet now, with ankles crossed and rocking her legs like a child. Bond dropped down and relaxed with one eye still on the girl. A strange girl who spends time alone in cemeteries at night. She remained still for a long time and Bond soon began to drift off again, unable to fight his exhaustion. Her singing woke him moments later and he cursed his tiredness before drifting again. This time when he woke it was to the girl's footfalls on the leafy grass as she headed for the front exit. Bond shook his limbs to life and followed carefully. He would stick with her until she revealed to him Leiter's secrets.

He went behind her at a good distance through tree-lined streets until she ended her journey at a typical American suburban street in a typically American suburban home. Now he had an address. This _had_ to be the girl he was meant to find. The simple fact of her being at the graveyard so late for some unfathomable reason that didn't involve mourning or vandalism made it so. She was performing some kind of routine. That must be the case or Felix wouldn't have thought he could find her there.

From behind a thick tree trunk, Bond waited until the lights of the house were all out before returning to his sad motel room on the edge of town.

He arrived back at 2am and unpacked a little. He didn't unpack completely, however. He hoped not to stay at the Downtowner too long. He did unpack a bottle of bourbon and took the hard drink straight from the bottle.

Considering the night, his instinct told him it was more than coincidence that the girl had been there right where indicated. And Felix' spelling of 'Blonde' in the feminine signalled he meant a blonde girl. He felt certain the girl he'd seen was the one that held answers. He wanted to break into her home and snoop around but he knew he needed more to go on than just intuition at this point. He went outside to the payphone beside the office and made a call to wake Jack Wade. Bond made eye contact briefly with the man at the motel reception desk, who apparently didn't require sleep. Such a deathly man seemingly brought back from the grave by Sunnydale's answer to Doctor Frankenstein, he mused. His call connected.

"How's Sunny D lookin', Jimbo?"

"Not sure yet. Haven't had the full tour. Look, I need you to do me a check on an address. Yes, it's 1630 Revello Drive. And anything that turns up on a girl of about twenty residing there. Thanks, Jack. I'll let you know when I get something." He hung up the receiver and went back to his room and the bourbon.

--

Bond showered early the next morning after a restless night in the too soft bed, dressed in a nice casual suit, and went into town for a simple breakfast of sesame bagel with ham and black coffee. He returned to watch the house on Revello Drive by 8am. He parked on the opposite side of the road just close enough to see the front façade of the building and after only 20 minutes, the girl with the blonde hair and love of 80's pop appeared. She came from the side of the house through a high gate towing a scooter. It was a Vespa ET4 in candyfloss pink with white front mudguard and black leather two-seat saddle and 12 inch wheels. It had a classic retro vintage style and was maybe a 125cc. Bond doubted the girl even knew of the scooter's WW2 origins. It was the Cushman Army scooter that was the inspiration for the Vespa, which meant 'wasp' in Italian. It was supposedly named so due to the high-pitched noise of the two-stroke engine and the body shape – the thicker rear section joined to the front section by a narrow waist and a steering rod that, as Bond could now see, really did resemble antennae.

The girl came out wearing a white and pink 'shorty' helmet with shades. Hopping on the small machine, she headed off with Bond not far behind but far enough to avoid suspicion. As he drove and watched her from behind, Bond had, in his own mind, already created a number of elaborate scenarios of what he may learn of the girl. Perhaps he would discover a bubbly young girl of some experience, even a plaything to some rich and dangerous man. A man that had disappeared an old CIA agent just a few days before. Perhaps she was a member of a necrophiliac cult and Leiter had simply been in the wrong part of town. No, too many holes in that one. She was part of a crowd that knew things about things that shouldn't be known. A member of a group of criminal ne'er-do-wells that have access to bigger criminal plots. Plots involving a Mexican named The Cuban. He stopped. They were in the town centre now and the girl was parking her scooter up outside a store and going in. He pulled over into a parking space along the pavement and waited, watching for signs of an approaching ticket inspector.

The shop was called the Magic Box and gave credence to his rather outlandish cult theory. He waited. For 2 hours until his legs grew stiff he waited and finally, when she didn't re-emerge, he decided to present himself directly. He wanted to at least get a sense of the girl and gauge her reaction to him and his situation.

--

A hanging bell rang as James Bond entered the store. He noted quickly the tables scattered inside that were covered in an array of oddities. The door to his left and the one beside the cash desk on the right. Toilet and basement, he expected. He saw the shelves and the distant library section and he spotted the blonde sat up at the till with a second young woman and an older man. He saw all this in an instant before moving casually over to a rack beside the main window where he feigned interest in the objects there. Pretending to browse, he snatched a glance back at the trio of strangers. He was being watched just as he was watching. It was time to break the ice that was building up. He just needed a tool…

On the shelf before his face was the strangest object he'd ever come across. It was a misshapen gold vase of some sort. Looking inside, it seemed to be the dried shell of a large fruit, likely from the calabash vine – among the first plants in history to be cultivated. An odd thing to find in a shop equally odd. He picked it up, prepared himself as best he could for whatever reaction may come, and headed for the cash desk where the three were talking quietly.

"I thought I might buy this for a friend," he interrupted, shaking the dried husk and initiating a line of dialogue. "If she asks what it is, what might I tell her?"

The eyes of the female employee seemed to light up at the sight of his chosen purchase and she almost gasped before catching herself and allowing a rather over-enthusiastic grin to exploded across her face. "That's the Golden Gourd of Fu Manchu used to drink the blood of virgins–"

The older man gave a forced laugh. "She's joking," he came in with what sounded to Bond like the upper-class accent of a South-Englander.

"No I'm not–"

The Brit went on; "It's a beautiful example of an ancient calabash gourd in gold leaf. Commissioned by Emperor Ch'in Shih-Huang around 210BCE. Hand-crafted by a visiting foreign tribe at his behest during his quest for the elixir of life; his search for the pathway to immortality. The fact it has never decomposed lends to its supposed magical properties and gives some theorists reason to believe that the first Chinese Emperor still lives among us today. Perfect as an ornament, historical piece, or… as a flower vase."

Bond looked on quite astonished by the bizarre tale and turned his most charming attention to the girl that was his target. "Well that was rather dramatic. I think I'll have to take it for the anecdote alone." It pleased him to see the girl smile up at him.

Now that he was close to her, Bond noticed the gym clothes and beads of sweat over her skin. She'd been training. At a shop. She knew the owner well. Perhaps a private gym was set up in the back room beyond the books. That or she was a jogger. He noticed also how smooth and flawless her skin was as it glistened with moisture. She was well-shaped with a pleasant, somewhat sensual, natural odour. She looked calm yet strong and fast, like a coiled spring. Her hair was tied back in a tail with a flirtatious and girlish wisp hanging in a ringlet like a blonde corkscrew beside her right eye. The eyes were large, a little sad, but attractive and warm, her nose long, thin and with a shape that was appealing and unique. Her mouth had a quality that beckoned to be kissed. Full soft lips that protected teeth more perfect than any he'd seen. She was one of the few women Bond had encountered with the irresistible ability to be both young and mature; to be cute and yet beautiful all at once.

The employee snatched the gourd from him and he realised he'd lingered on the girl a touch longer than was comfortable between strangers. "It's surprising to find a fellow Englishman living in the States," he said to the older man.

"Well, I hale from Bath originally. I'm not a permanent resident. I'm with Universal Personnel. We go where we're needed. And yourself?"

"Southerner also. On vacation at the moment." He still watched the girl from the corner of his eye.

"Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. Giles, by the way. Rupert Giles."

"Bond. James Bond." He leaned on the counter a little casually and looked around at the trio. His name caused no reaction. Well, time to throw in his spanner and see what cogs came loose. "Actually I'm here to meet a friend of mine. He seems to have misplaced himself, however. Felix Leiter's his name. I don't suppose you've seen him around? He has blond hair. And he'd have a limp and a false arm."

The only reactions that met him were their bemused expressions. Not what he'd expected.

"Two thousand dollars," the rather robotic employee said with an outstretched palm and the whitest smile in the west.

Bond gagged. He was certain the folded card had said 20.00 and he said so.

The robotic girl with the long face and thin features rushed desperately to retrieve the card from the rack by the front window. When she returned, her face had grown longer and redder. "There's a decimal point here that shouldn't be here, Giles!"

"It's a simple mistake," the English man, Giles, replied. "I'm sure Mr Bond will understand. This is a priceless item available at a remarkably low cost as it is."

Bond was about to protest. After all, who in their right mind would pay almost a thousand pounds for the dead skin of an old fruit? The worker came unhappily to his rescue.

"No, Giles," she said angrily and explained the trading rules. "You sold the Golden Gourd of Fu Manchu for _twenty_ _dollars_!" She threw the card down and stormed into the back of the store. By the time Bond had paid and received his receipt, the sound of smacking wood could be heard from the back room. It ended with a splintering crunch.

Bond smiled, said thank you, and walked smugly out of the Magic Box, pleased with his apparent bargain.

-

Outside, Bond lit a cigarette and thought to himself whilst the smoke filled up his lungs. What an odd experience. And their lack of response to both his name and that of Felix had been honest which took him back to the first peg. No leads. All together an anti-climax. This left only one piece of the puzzle that could be exploited: The Cuban. He decided there and then to do a Cuban hunt. Seeing as that had got Felix in trouble, it was the best way to get to that trouble and therefore to Felix. Bond scratched out the cigarette with his foot and let out the last lung-full of smoke and, with the Golden Gourd of Fu-Manchu tucked under his left arm, Bond headed off to find himself a Mexican firestarter.

_To Be Continued..._


	3. In The Eye of The Storm

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

--

_In The Eye of The Storm_ / 00**3**

Recon. Bond spent a good part of the day driving around town, getting a layout of the neighbourhoods, asking subtle questions in small shops and café's, coming to understand the kinds of social zones spread over town, their sizes, the nature of the groups there, and the places and crowds to watch out for. Two possible rough neighbourhoods soon came to his attention. One with a Spanish speaking population. He knew right away to avoid asking questions about his Mexican Cuban target there. People, especially the rough and tough, tended to protect their own. There was another rough area where his questions might find more willing ears. Ears attached to more talkative mouths. He just needed to find a place, a dirty bar, where the talkative sort might frequent. The kind that might know about some of the more unsavoury aspects of town life. Thanks to a couple of young Goths in a café with a retro gas station motif, he knew of such a place. Willy's Place.

He parked the Saab in the centre of town and walked the few blocks to the underworld bar. Stepping out of the early evening air and into the dark smoky establishment, he found a place more in the under than in the world. Bond needed a drink. First, however, he took to the green leather seat in the corner cubicle nearest the exit and observed his surroundings.

The bar was decorated with a mix of rouge walls and 70's wallpaper. On the walls in each cubicle were also sets of photographs and the archway surrounding a door to a back room was lined with license plates from automobiles. Along one wall ran a set of large tables with leather green sofas, one of which he was seated at, and along the opposite wall was the walnut bar area. The bar was lined with high stools and smaller tables were scattered about the floor. Playing softly on the jukebox in the background, and completely undermining the dark aspect of such a place, were the crooning tones of Andy Williams.

There were only a half dozen others in. A dodgy looking bunch. Freaky even. Worse than the Hell's Angel and heavy metal types he expected. On a stool at the bar sat one man with flowing red hair and a heavy tan. …A _very_ heavy tan. From the look of him he'd spent the night on a sunbed. His nakedness didn't seem to bother the other patrons and Bond tracked his eyes across the room to the far cubicle where two others sat together. One with extremely close-set eyes wearing a thick brown lambskin jacket, the other a scabby woman in a black fleece, both with odd horned hats. Two more sat separately in the shadows, their backs to him concealing their appearance. They, if not the choice of music, gave the joint its seedy ambience.

The hanging beads rustled in the doorway behind Bond. A man entered and moved, after a brief pause, to the left side of the bar. Bond immediately reacted upon the sight of him. The man didn't fit. He came in wearing a mac, turned up at the collar, and a baseball hat pulled low down to the ears, shadowing his face beneath its peak. The clothes were mismatched all together and no man would wear a mac on an evening as warm as this one. The clothes were all wrong. Wrong, that is, for any man not a street tramp. And the man was no tramp. His trainers, or sneakers as the Americans called them, looked new. His face was clean-shaven and his hands too clean for a man of the street. And, when he pulled out his wallet, it was clear he had money. He heard the man order a cocktail he'd never heard of. Something bee-neg. As Bond observed, the man turned around and looked at him quite deliberately before taking his cocktail shot. The bartender was also eyeing him. It was time to get that drink.

Bond moved to a stool at the centre of the counter and the barman approached, his suspicious eyes now solicitous with the desire to serve. He was a man with the look of an old-time gangster's snitch. A talker, and a double-talker. Bond could tell.

"What's your thirst, friend?" he asked in a high weasely voice.

"Vodka straight with a pinch of black pepper," replied Bond.

"…Any sauce with that?" The barman shot back sarcastically.

Bond wasn't laughing.

The barman backtracked apologetically. "One peppered Russian…."

The bartender was holding something in, Bond considered, as he watched his drink being poured. His face looked like the tied knot of a balloon. The talker was biting his tongue. Why?

To the left of him, the man in the mac and hat sat stiffly, rolling his drink around in its glass. The cocktail looked like a Bloody Mary but the patron didn't look the Bloody Mary sort.

Bond's drink landed before him, a neat red napkin placed underneath, and he took half of it in one swallow.

"You're new in town," noted the bartender. "That an English accent? Just travelling? Passing through? Your first time here?"

Bond played on the underworld nature of his surroundings. "Just taking care of some unfinished business for my employer. A contract that needed closing." He unbuttoned his jacket and let it open.

"Ah, a businessman?" He saw the shoulder holster and the Walther strapped under Bond's arm. "That kind of business. Good work?"

"Had better. Actually I'm looking to move up to more prosperous jobs. That's another reason I volunteered for this assignment. Was hoping to make contact with a prospective new employer. There's a Mexican in town I'd like to see about it. You wouldn't happen to know of any Mexican freelance businessmen who fit the bill?"

"Mexicans? Sorry, pal, different circles and all that. You wanna try the Spanish village other side of town."

The barman was certainly nervous about something.

"You're a hard guy to track."

Bond turned to see the man in the mac had moved up to him, leaning in and talking under his hat. "Excuse me?"

"Bond, isn't it?"

His name landed like a bomb. He didn't answer.

"You're the English guy, right? The one with the cripple friend? _He_ told me I'd know you by your scar and confident swagger. He gave me a message for you."

"Then let's hear it."

The stranger signalled to a cubicle and Bond followed him to the corner seat. He sat opposite the man, facing the exit, and waited for the message.

"There's a man you need to see. Your friend said he knew things and would tell you what happened if things went wrong. You're here, so I guess things went wrong."

"Who's the man I need to see?"

"Name's Mister Blood. He knows everything that goes on in this town."

"And where do I find him?"

"You don't. He finds you… But I might be able to give you an idea how to catch his eye and help things along…"

Bond wasn't fooled. He was looking into the eyes of an agent provocateur. A man sent to pass on misinformation. Ultimately leading to a trap. "Go on."

"Out past Breaker's Woods there's a hydroelectric dam…up on the hill above the dam there's a memorial statue that celebrates the re-founding of Sunnydale…A weathered copper statue of Mayor What's-his-face holding up a flame torch to light the way to the future. For the hundredth anniversary of the re-founding, they replaced the flame with a dish and had a real fire burning in it. Ha, they fitted a screw-in gold flame after that but it didn't stay in long as you can imagine. Never replaced it again. Anyway, it's said you can arrange counsel with Mister Blood by setting a fire in the torch there at nightfall. If you're lucky, he'll make an appearance."

Bond paused for a moment, feigning consideration. "The question begs to be asked… Why 'Mister Blood'?"

"He's got a thing about the red stuff. A blood fetish, you might call it. A perversion."

There was another pause. This time the stranger was looking for a sign Bond was buying it. So, he nodded in approval and thanked the man for the lead.

The stranger pulled his hat down and excused himself from the bar. Moments later, Bond paid and left.

-

James Bond lit a Morland and sat against the midnight blue bonnet of his rented Saab, taking in the smoke with heavy breaths, and considered what had just happened.

Bond's first thought was that he no longer had the edge of anonymity and surprise. His presence was known. His cover blown. One more night in the motel then he would have to move.

Ok, so there was an enemy here. That much was unquestionable now. Maybe it's the Cuban. Maybe Felix got too close and needed taking out. But there was a flaw. Whoever sent him the message through the 'stool pigeon' at Willy's Place didn't know about the postcard message. So it wasn't Felix. Felix _had_ sent him the postcard. That was his message. It had been direct to him – not through anyone else.

In fact, there were a number of flaws. The Cuban – such an expert he managed to remain a ghost to the point that his very existence was mythical – so easily located in this nowhere town? From a tip-off, no less. The whole scenario had seemed too unlikely to Bond from the very start. So, was it a lure? A way to get Felix out in the open? A set-up?

But, why? It only raised more questions and made even less sense the deeper he thought about it. Why would anyone want to set Felix up? Even the Cuban? Sure, Leiter suspected he was Mexican – a big breakthrough clue to his true identity – but he was far from the only person who knew it. The CIA had his old reports and knew his opinions. So it wasn't that.

Revenge? Too far-fetched and pointless. There was something deeper. Bond just couldn't fathom it.

He weighed his situation up again. Two clues. One from Felix and one from the enemy. If he followed the enemy's false lead and made contact with the haematophile Mister Blood, springing the trap that undoubtedly waited, he'd be sure to get to the bottom of things. Only, without knowing who was setting it up, nor how dangerous it would be. No, it would be wise to trust his old friend and give the blonde girl a chance to reveal whatever Felix wanted him to know. One more day. Then; to hell with questions and time to be baited.

Fish.

Why did the image of fish suddenly come to mind? It could just be the thought of being baited – a fish lured by the hook and line cast out to him by the bar messenger. Anyway…

It was getting late and Bond was hungry.

--

He'd found a nice place in town for supper with an outside eating area, which had been pleasant for the evening was warm, but now Bond settled into his uncomfortable bed in the Downtowner motel and finalised his plan. In the morning he would leave this godforsaken hole and check into one of the nicer hotels he'd seen earlier in the day. One with a view of the park and lakes. Afterwards, he would continue to shadow the girl for better or worse. He still didn't understand why Felix thought she was so important. If she was involved in his disappearance, or part of a sinister scheme, he felt sure he would have noticed. Even in her strong, guarded eyes there had been no trace of dishonesty. There had been three people in the magic shop and none gave any such subtle sign. This made him wonder why Felix had pointed to her. He didn't doubt it was her. Instinct said so. If the girl failed to reveal anything the next day, he would go hunting.

Spring the trap! Smoke the villain out!

His body ached to walk up to that statue over the dam and bring the enemy so he could look them in the eye and make them hand over his friend. Dead or alive. He wouldn't leave without taking Felix home. But he would be patient. Just one more day. It was his friend's wish, after all.

The mattress beneath him was without springs and the padding inside seemed to have been pummelled into a thin mulch. Sleep came slowly. It was a shallow sleep. A troubled sleep filled with snapping, biting fish in cold turbulent waters. And…

It didn't last long.

Bond's eyes opened suddenly, his hand grasping the sleeping gun under his pillow. He was fully awake in an instant.

Silence in the dark. But something was amiss to have wakened him.

Silence in the dark. No. It was neither silent nor dark. His eyes focused to find the room bathed in a faint orange glow. His ears began to pick up the quiet crackling sound that could mean only one thing… and the smell that hit his senses confirmed it. _He_ was being smoked out by _them_!

He shot up from the bed, keeping low, and peered over the sill of the window. What he saw shocked him. The courtyard and half the motel was ablaze. Fire cracking and spitting, burning timber and crumbling brick.

The Cuban! Dammit, the Cuban was real! He was outside!

Then another thought occurred to him… They knew he was here! They knew his name! He cursed himself. He should have changed hotels the moment that stool pigeon used his name in the dirty bar.

It was too late now. Bond ducked down and leaned against the wall joining room 14. It was warm against his naked skin. He had to think. How could he escape? Fire all around, the enemy outside somewhere. But he had to move. No choice. He was going to burn otherwise. If he could make it to the car he had a chance.

_Damn it to hell._

He jumped the bed and threw on his worsted trousers and white shirt. He wasn't about to be taken out completely naked. The car keys and postcard went into his pocket and he took the gun in one hand and his case in the other, thankful he hadn't unpacked it.

((BOOM))

The windows shattered and the room shook, fire leaping in through the broken holes to find him. The floor beneath his bare feet began to buckle and Bond scrambled out the door and onto the high deck.

_Good God!_

Horror met him. His room, it seemed, no matter how impossible his mind found it, was the only room not an inferno. Rooms 14 and 12 on either side of him and the walkway before them were completely engulfed, the heat searing. He searched the forecourt below and saw no one waiting to take him out. They could be hidden, he acknowledged. His car was there where he'd left it.

Suddenly below him and to his left room 1 and the reception area exploded. The blast shattered his ears and scolded him, singeing his hairs. The fireball took out the staircase and the deck outside room 12 began to burn and crumble away. The heat was unbearable.

James Bond, in desperation, threw his suitcase over the rail to the hard ground 15 feet below, set the safety on his weapon and dropped it over. The supports of his deck snapped and, as the walkway began to collapse, he hurled himself over the railing…

…Bond hit the case side-on and splashed out across the tarmac.

He ignored the stinging grazes and the protests of his left kidney as he scrambled up in a burning sweating panic, recovered his gun, and dragged his case across the forecourt to the parked Saab. All the while he searched around with the gun for any assassins. He was surprised to reach the car safely.

((((BOOM))))

Bond was thrown against the vehicle as the entire motel caved in under a firestorm.

_Two blasts. Caused by what? Had to be explosives. Had to be the Cuban._

He moved around the car for cover, ducked against the driver door and dug for his keys as the deafening inferno licked and cracked and…

…Silence.

The silence was so sudden and so complete that his ears rang like air raid sirens. He lifted himself up carefully, his blood bounding through his veins, and looked out across the yard.

_Impossible. Impossible._

The fire was out. The entire motel now reduced to a blackened heap of smoking ruins. It couldn't be… simply couldn't be…

His first and surprising instinct was to think he had blacked out. But he hadn't. He knew it. Had he somehow lost time? He looked to his watch – it wasn't there. It was part of the debris now on the remains of a cheap dirty bedside table. His next reaction surprised him more and he would never understand why he did it… Bond looked up into the night sky. What was he looking for? Lights? Alien space ships?

Stupid.

But the fire was out. He couldn't fathom it. The fire was out!

He snapped out of it quickly, buttoned his shirt up, opened his case and put on his socks and shoes. Underwear could wait. He threw his case into the boot, got into the car and stopped.

Of all the times and places, someone had put a leaflet under his wiper. He wanted to move, he wanted to run, but his British sense of duty demanded action. He climbed out, scanning around, and pulled the piece of garbage away from his windscreen. But, before he could screw it up and throw it aside, he had to see who was bothering him.

The paper wasn't cheap or photocopied. It was high gloss and full colour. One side advertised some kind of town restaurant, expensive looking.

_ROYAL KŌTEI HOUSE_

_Asian Style Barbecue Restaurant_

And beneath the number and address:

_Call now for a reservation_

_You've never been so close to barbecued perfection _

Bond reread the last line and caught the dark irony in it.

_You've never been so close to barbecued perfection_.

He sneered and turned the leaflet over to the white side. There he saw the message. His heart stopped.

_Welcome to the eye of the storm. If you liked the starter, you'll love the main course, Mr Bond._

He wasn't meant to die in the fire. It was a warning. A scare tactic. How was it possible? Fires and explosions are not so controllable. His room – unlucky 13 – the only room not blazing with the others. The eye of the storm.

He felt like a mouse in a trap. And there was something… something sinisterly familiar in the mocking tones of the message on the leaflet. Someone was playing with him now and he didn't feel like playing along.

Bond jumped back into the car and spun away as fast as the Saab could take him.

-

Tearing along the wooded roads through the outskirts of town, passing the turning for Saint Alphonsus' church, Bond wondered many things as his mind swam with confusion. Who? Who was toying with his life and sending him a message. How? How did they know he was here? How had the fire been so controllable? Why? What was the point? What the hell was going on? Bond was falling, descending into a hell of confusion. He needed to regroup. Think. Plan. And then… then he would strike!

Bond gasped and slammed the brake.

In his headlights he caught a flash of a dark figure in the wooded road and he swerved across into the left lane. The car spun out of control and turned in a screeching 360 twist. He came to a sharp stop on the opposite side of the road facing back the way he'd come. In the centre of the road, right in front of his bonnet and bathed in the Saab's lamps, was the figure. Still standing, unshaken, and glaring at him with menacing eyes. It looked like a man, a ghostly figure in dirty black ragged clothes. His skin was dark. African? No, darker. Too dark. The gun was in the passenger seat. Bond put his hand on it, lowered the window, and leaned out.

The man was gone.

Bond blinked. There was no sign of the figure and he stared for a length of time, his engine ticking over, wondering if his mind was falling apart. Even so, he wasn't going to lose it here. He put the car in first gear and–

The engine cut out.

_No, no_. It wouldn't start. He closed his eyes and gripped the wheel in frustration. Then he had the sudden sensation he wasn't alone. He looked out the window again into the darkness. His lights were out. The edge of the forest seemed to move and come to life. Forms – people – things – coming out of the woods – heading for the Saab.

Bond checked himself. Postcard and leaflet in pocket, gun in hand. He climbed out of the car. The people were coming. When he saw how many of them came – a crowd descending on him – he knew his gun was useless. What the hell was going on? Was he losing his mind? But when James Bond saw the dark shadowy mist pouring out of his engine and, blinking, saw the dark shadowy man had returned in its place, he left his mind in the middle of the road and ran.

He ran and didn't stop, wishing he'd kept in better shape. The adrenaline did its job and pushed him harder and further than he was really capable of. But where was he running to? Where was he going? Bond didn't know. Yes. Yes, he knew where to go – the only place he _could_ go!

--

Minutes later, calmer and more collected, Bond found the girl in Heaven's Gate sitting on the headstone of a tomb guarding the Constantine crypt again. His blood was still pumping but he approached as smoothly as he could manage.

"Good evening."

She turned in surprise. "Oh, it's you," she said, seeing his dishevelled self. "John Bond, right?"

"James Bond. Beautiful night for a walk in the graveyard."

"Um…"

"I didn't catch your name the first time."

She climbed down, brushing loose hair over her ear. "Buffy. I'm Buffy. Buffy is me."

"Remarkable name."

She held herself awkwardly for a moment then her eyes opened up. "Oh, I remembered something after you left the store yesterday. I think I did see your friend…"

Bond listened.

--

It was last week sometime…late, like tonight. I was here…around…just like tonight. I remember the Texan; blonde hair, limping. He was running from…someone. Bad people were chasing him. I guess I scared them off…

Buffy helped the man up off the damp grass, watching for any other attackers.

"Who were they?" the man asked her. "_What_ were they?"

"Those guys?" She looked over the ground where their dust remained. "Drug addicts," she said.

"That's the second time I've been attacked tonight," Felix moaned as he brushed himself off. "I'm beginning to think I'm not welcome here. Thanks anyway. I'm lucky you were around tonight."

"I practically live here," replied Buffy. "But not in a creepy way. I don't like to hang out in cemeteries. It's just these…drug addicts…are a big problem. I'm neighbourhood watch."

"Lucky neighbourhood." The man smiled, though he was clearly perturbed, and limped away.

--

So, that was why Felix had sent him to this place to find the blonde? Just because she helped him out? It still didn't make sense. Why was she so important?

"What's that smell?"

Bond looked at her in confusion before realising that his clothes retained the smoky stench of the flaming motel. He wasn't ready to attempt an explanation for that one yet and he sidestepped the question. "I believe my friend wanted me to find you," he said, feeling honesty was the best way forward. "I'm just not sure why." He handed the postcard to her.

After looking at it she seemed as confused as he was. Or did she just _seem_ confused? Now he couldn't tell. "You sit here every night?"

"…Uh…well…" Her eyes drifted away from him and focused on something beyond.

Bond turned around slowly to find himself confronted by a large gang of rough-looking youths.

"You Bond?" one of them asked forcefully. "You got an appointment tonight. Come with us."

He wasn't prepared. He needed more time to gather his composure and understand the enemy he was involved with before meeting them. He turned back to the girl and tried to stay casual. "Like my friend, I seem to be in a spot of bother."

She didn't look so casual. "They're human."

Bond shot a questioning look at her. What the hell was she talking about?

"I mean – they're not…drug addicts. Well, _he_ might be a drug addict." She pointed out one with dark eyes and a spot of drool around his chin. "I don't fight these kind of people."

"Then what would you suggest?"

She eyed the horde. Familiars, she thought, using a term she'd come to understand from a half-blood hunter named Blade. There were too many of them. But she did have a suggestion for the tall Englishman. "Run."

She set off in a sprint and Bond chased after her, the gang in quick pursuit. Bond's muscles ached and he could barely keep up. He reached for the Walther tucked into his waist and fired off a warning shot that echoed in the night.

Buffy turned, surprise etched across her face at the sight of him with a gun.

Somewhere behind him Bond heard the crack of a second weapon, followed by the unmistakable whip of a bullet zinging past his head. He fired twice more into the racing crowd, aiming over them.

"Stop shooting!" The girl screamed back at him.

Sudden movement at Bond's 2 o'clock caught his eye. Another man came snarling at him from behind a tall gravestone, his face contorted with rage, a set of cheap horrorshop fangs in his mouth. He moved swiftly to cut off Bond's escape wielding a nailed plank in his hand.

James Bond was out of patience and low on mercy. He aimed quickly and roughly from the hip and the gun in his hand spat with a pop. The man's jaw exploded and he collapsed backward.

Buffy turned again, shock in her eyes. So many of them and they kept coming. Even for Sunnydale this was a step too far. It was a hell-bent hanging squad and they had no chance of losing them all. She needed help quickly. Instantly, even, and there was only one person she could think of who had the means to deliver it.

She slowed to let the Englishman catch up and concentrated with all her inner power to tap into the telepathic channel she sometimes shared with her Wiccan friend. It was a fifty-fifty shot in the dark but she screamed an SOS, silently, calling for Willow. Crying out for a rescue.

Bond reached Buffy, she was falling behind, and he slipped the gun into his pocket and grabbed her arm to propel her on.

They were hit by a sudden gust followed by a flash and lightening.

Somewhere behind, between them and the chasing horde, a portal of electrical energy and swirling matter ripped open for an instant then vanished.

Bond stopped and spun. A second girl was there now, a redhead.

Willow appeared in her pyjamas and yelped at the sight before her. Buffy had sent her a jarring, painful image…but boy did it _not_ do justice to the reality! "Desino!"

The Witch clapped her hands together unleashing a mighty wave that hit the attacking crowd and barred them with an invisible wall of energy. Then she went limp, blood streaming from her nose, and collapsed into the grass.

Buffy rushed over to her friend. "Help me! Quickly! There's not much time!"

Bond went over, his confusion absolute. Buffy wiped the blood from her friend's face and Bond thought the girl looked familiar. Perhaps from the Magic Shop. Together they picked the redhead up and carried her away. As they retreated Bond glanced back and could not for the life of him understand why the gang, so keen a moment ago to catch them, was suddenly letting them go. But, then, there was a lot about that night he could not understand…

--

Before he knew it, James Bond was walking back down tree-lined suburban streets so tranquil they made the horrors of the night seem like a bad dream. They were soon approaching Buffy's house, her friend now conscious and almost walking as they entered onto the wide concrete sidewalk that stretched through the middle of the front lawn. Bond passed palm trees standing guard on either side and moved up the short flight of steps leading to the sizeable front door that was flanked by picture windows. The steep pitched roof overhung the porch, supported by four pillars. Bond looked around as Buffy opened the door. To the right a driveway led off alongside the house. To the left was the gate into the back where Buffy had appeared that very morning with her motor scooter. The house was open and he entered.

A foyer that became a hallway occupied the lower main floor. This ran beside the staircase to the second floor. Off the hall, a huge living room opened up to the left. Buffy led them to the right into a dining room where they sat the redhead down at the table. Bond stepped back, wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve. He wanted to sit down, to collapse, but he couldn't, he was too wound up. Buffy was looking at him.

"Is she alright?" he managed.

The girl was holding onto her temples. "My brain hurts."

"Both of you can stay here tonight," said Buffy. "James, right? Take a shower then we'll talk. Towels are in the bathroom. You can use my robe_._"

It sounded more like an order than an offer. The girl was certainly strong in character, no matter how small her size. He did as she suggested, however, but only because he wanted to. He definitely needed the wash.

Buffy watched as the man moved out of the room, and heard as a hurried set of feet descended the staircase. A moment later her little sister came in with a look of concern.

"What's goin' on? Who's that guy? Oh my God, what happened to Willow?"

"She's okay I think," Buffy said. "Just a little nose bleed."

"And a big headache," squeaked Will. "I should let Tara know I'm staying."

"Soon. Rest first. Then you can call her. On the telephone."

"Right. …Agreed." Willow sagged back into the chair.

"Sorry you had to do that."

"Please don't ask me to do it again. Teleporting… is _not_ cool."

"It's a promise. I'll take my cellphone from now on. Next time I can call Xander and he can race over in his new truck."

"He'll love that," said Will.

"And it probably won't make his nose bleed," Dawn added.

The girls smiled.

Buffy turned to her sister "Could you get a towel and some water for me?"

"Sure."

A few seconds later she returned and Buffy rinsed the towel and applied it to Willow's sore head.

"What happened tonight?" Dawn asked again. "Who's the guy?"

Buffy considered it. "Good questions."

-

Bond familiarised himself with the house and surroundings before he went for his shower.

It was a 2-storey American Craftsman style home. Bond knew the style as it ironically originated from the British Arts and Crafts movement dating back to the 1860's as opposition to the over decorated Victorian style. It aimed to show the skill of the craftsman and championed the hand-made over the mass produced. In fact, he mused, the whole movement was laden with irony as the expense of hand-crafting served the rich, though the movement was founded on a socialist philosophy. Utter contradiction. While the British movement was anti-Victorian, as the Victorian era came to an end it was translated in the States, perhaps, as an anti-Industrial Revolution style. Itself a precursor to Art Deco.

In any case, it was a simple, well-made, elegant style. Clean lines, good solid structure, and made from natural materials. Bond approved.

A kitchen lay beyond the dining room offering access to the living room, basement and rear porch where a small flight of steps led into the garden. Bond saw two more escape routes.

Back in the kitchen he checked the cellar. It was an impressive full basement in which the laundry facilities and the hot water tank were located along the back wall.

Another girl passed through, a young brunette in her teens, giving him a furtive glance as she collected a hand towel and filled a jug with tap water before retreating back into the dining room. He moved on.

The upstairs also had a number of possible exits via the windows and pitched roof. Once he'd learned the layout of the building he took to the shower and scrubbed away the smoke and horror of the night. Things began to come into clearer focus as he considered them, the spray of the water beating down over his head soothing his confused mind.

His motel had been set alight. Burned to the ground. A terrorist as prolific and experienced as the Cuban would have no trouble setting up the blaze that kept him from death but aimed so surely at scaring him. It didn't. It only made him more determined to find him, and whoever was paying him. As for the explosions and the fire going out so suddenly? Bond had that figured out. Everyday buildings were being demolished using controlled explosions; bringing them down safely and those never went up in flames. The demolition of the Downtowner motel had been set up in such a way that the collapse had extinguished the fire that was already blazing. Yes, Bond thought, that was it. And the rest was simple. A decoy in the road, he'd swerved and stopped, the decoy apparently vanishing. No doubt he had gone under the car and damaged the engine from beneath. The engine had smoked and the decoy resurfaced. The gang of hired thugs had then appeared from their forest hiding places. The dark night and the unexpected onslaught had simply instilled Bond with a temporary blind panic. He'd run. And the thugs didn't chase them outside the cemetery because… because… they weren't meant to. He remembered the leaflet left on his car with its sinister mocking tone which was somehow familiar. It was a game. He was being toyed with. And the redhead, he'd heard the name Willow, she had been at the cemetery already, of course, as some kind of back-up to Buffy. She'd flashed the crowd with a stun-light like the ones recently developed by Universal Guardian for the police department. She must have dropped it… perhaps hit by a projectile from the crowd that knocked her down. It all made sense. All except who these girls were and why they sat in cemeteries at night. He would stay the night here as suggested for two reasons. It was a perfect chance to learn more about the blonde and, more importantly, he had no belongings but for a pair of smoked trousers and a sizzled shirt.

He shut off the shower after a spell under cold water and dried himself off. Buffy's bathrobe was there as she'd indicated. It was a pink Hello Kitty dressing gown and a little short on him. Unfortunately it was all he had to serve as clothing. Its polyester velour was soft and comfortable which he took as a small consolation.

Downstairs he found Buffy in the living room preparing a bed for him on the sofa with a set of Spongebob pillows.

"Thank you," he said, drawing her attention. "For allowing me to stay the night."

"You looked like you needed a place to crash."

"And I do. I've had an interesting evening. My hotel burned down, my car was sabotaged and I had to leave it along with my luggage and wallet in the middle of a forest road where I was chased off by a gang. …And I have the strange feeling you might be able to tell me what exactly happened tonight. At the graveyard especially."

She looked at him with those strong, young, playful eyes. "How would _I_ know? I was just there. You were the one who showed up and brought the party."

"I don't have the answer to that yet. They were thugs, possibly. Working for someone. The same person who disappeared Felix, I expect. Felix knew days ago that I'd find you at that graveyard. Why do you go there every night?"

"Why did you go there to find me?"

She'd avoided his question, Bond noticed. Given his situation he chose not to push at that time. "My first suspicion was that the 'Blonde' was his attacker. Now I think Felix wanted me to find you because you can help me. But why? How?"

She knew why. But he was from out of town. And still part of the 'normal' life that remained ignorant to the life underneath where vampires and demons walked. She knew the how and why. But he wasn't ready to hear it. "The people that were chasing him that night…they're the kind of people I fight."

"As part of your neighbourhood watch scheme?"

"Right."

"Drug addicts?"

"…Yeah."

She was lying. She hesitated at the words 'drug addicts' and, besides, she wasn't good at it. "But Felix was looking for a man called 'The Cuban'. Does that mean anything? Or someone in town using the name 'Mister Blood'?"

"I'll call Giles first thing in the morning. He might be able to find out something for you. And I'll call a friend with a four-by-four to tow your car to a garage."

"I can't thank you enough."

"Then don't." It was then she noticed the bulge in her bathrobe pocket. "Why do you carry that?"

Bond put his hand to the gun. "Protection. As an American you must agree that every man has the right to protect himself in today's climate. I certainly needed it tonight."

"You shot a man," she said, knowing herself that the man had been a vampire but knowing that James Bond did not. That had been an incident that concerned her not only because Bond wasn't afraid to kill a man, but because the vamp who would now be regenerating half his face had been hominus nocturna and not a demon. One of Blade's diseased breed. The first she'd ever seen in town. Something unusual was happening here.

"He had a weapon. It was him or me. There wasn't much to consider under the circumstances."

"What happens when the cops trace the bullet?" she asked, knowing his bullet would never be found on a corpse.

"Let's just say I don't have to worry about that."

"Unlicensed weapon? What if I decide to report the killing to the police?"

"I have a licence. And you should do what you feel you must. Again, I'm not worried about the police. Though, I'd prefer not to get their attention of course."

She watched him dubiously for a few seconds wondering what kind of a man was in her home. Yet she felt he wasn't a bad man. "I don't want a gun in my home," she stated flatly.

"But axes and crossbows are acceptable?" he fired back with a coy smile. "I had a look around before my shower to get a lay of the house and noticed your chest over there. Interesting collection considering there's a teenager in the house." The girl straightened up with a defensive expression and Bond quickly stepped in before she kicked him out. "How about I give you this," he said, removing the magazine from the Walther and handing it to her, placing the gun back in the pocket of the pink robe.

She met him halfway and took the cartridge of bullets. "You can sleep on the sofa. I'll bring you a blanket." She headed for the stairs.

"Sorry to impose further but would you mind if I use your phone? I should let a friend know where I am."

She nodded and went for the blanket.

It was good to hear Wade's tired voice when he finally picked up. Bond apologised for waking him and asked if he'd found any info on the girl. Wade told him he would by morning. Bond quickly told him about the fire – the Cuban – and the feeling he had of being in a net that was getting deadlier and tighter. He gave Wade the number of Buffy's home phone and asked him to call in the morning.

Ten minutes later he was in bed in the dark and suddenly exhausted. The gun – his guardian – was tucked under the pillow with a single bullet still chambered in the barrel.

He felt certain that tomorrow would bring answers and he closed his eyes. Bond fell asleep instantly and dreamed dark dreams all night of living fire and men made of mist.


	4. We Fight Monsters, Mr Bond

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

--

_We Fight Monsters, Mr Bond_ / 00**4**

The next morning, Commander James Bond of the British Secret Intelligence Service woke to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of girlish laughter. A surreal moment passed before he remembered where he was. He dragged himself up off the sofa still in the pink bathrobe, his hair wild from a bad night, and walked sleepily into the dining room. There he found the teenaged girl with a bowl of cereal, spreading butter over a blackened slice of toast.

She paused mid-bite at the sight of him.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Um…early?"

He wiped the sleep from his eyes and focused on the old-fashioned wooden pendulum clock on the wall. It was almost 9am. He couldn't recall a time he'd slept so late. It explained the hung-over feeling. Too much sleep was worse than not enough.

Bond noticed an odd scrabble set-up at the dining table. "What on earth's a 'donglebaum'?"

"Oh, that's Buffy's," Dawn replied through a mouthful of milky flakes. "We're playing Invented Scrabble. But you only get points if you provide a convincing encyclopaedic explanation of your invented word." The tall handsome man looked at her blankly. "See – mine's 'fleebernurdle'. Fleeber, that's the modern German slang for 'sewage' and nurdle is the old Celtic word for 'head' and fleebernurdle means shi–"

"I got it."

"It's a good way to kick-start the brain on a morning."

"And the imagination I expect."

"You sound just like Giles."

Bond frowned.

"Morning." Buffy greeted him from the kitchen doorway. "I put your clothes in the washer. You want some breakfast?"

"Sounds perfect." He entered the kitchen and saw that everyone else was dressed but him. Then he saw the mangled mess they were frying on the stove. "What are you making?" he asked tentatively.

Willow's face contorted as she puzzled over the question. "…Some kind of egg and bacon ensemble."

"We're big on innovation in this house," explained Buffy.

"Is that what you call it?" Bond gently eased them aside and took the reigns. "You're murdering those eggs. Come here."

He ordered a fresh frying pan and set about preparing a perfect breakfast for three as the girls shared a curious look.

When he was through, the three of them sat at the table where Dawn was finishing up each with a ½ pint of orange juice, 3 eggs, lightly scrambled with bacon, coffees, lightly done toast and marmalade.

Buffy thanked him before tucking in.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he replied. "It's the least I could do in return for your hospitality."

"Such a gentleman," Will declared.

"He reminds me of Giles," Dawn said again.

Buffy then gave her a suspect look. "You're up early today. You _do_ know there's no school for another two weeks, right?"

"I'm meeting Louise at the mall. With Paris coming up next week my wardrobe needs a total overhaul. I simply must look bourjois when I say bonjour to les jeune hommes. If I go with what I got I'll look more like a pommes frit."

"You're going to Paris?" asked Bond.

"Just for a few days before school starts," Buffy answered.

"She's been promising a trip for weeks," Dawn half moaned. "I'm gonna stay the night at Louise's place if that's alright?"

"I guess so."

Dawn grinned triumphantly and waited a few seconds out of decency before continuing; "Oh, can I have money? And maybe a ride to the mall? I could borrow the scooter."

Buffy rolled her eyes in defeat. "But no borrowing of the scooter. Xander can take you when we get Mr Bond's car."

"James, please."

Dawn groaned. "I wish you were still a Porsche."

"Pardon me?" said Bond.

Buffy stepped in quickly, "She means she wishes I still _had_ the Porsche. Long story."

The house phone rang. Buffy got up, relieved to escape as she'd just spent about 300 bucks on clothes not for her and almost given the mysterious James Bond another reason to grill her about her odd existence.

Bond finished his meal and was just emptying his second cup of black coffee when Buffy's dainty voice called from the living room.

"Anyone know what a double-oh-seven is?"

"That's me," said Bond, rushing to take the call. As Buffy handed him the receiver she lifted a brow at him. "Pet name," he said. Once alone and out of earshot he took the call. It was Wade.

"Tell me something, Jack. I'm in suburban hell here," he exaggerated.

"I got your info. 1630 Revello Drive. Address is bought and paid for. Owned by Buffy Anne Summers."

Bond almost sniggered at the name Anne Summers, in light of the British lingerie/sex shops of the same name.

"It was left to her in her mother's will," Jack continued. "I'll hazard a guess and say that was her? That where you're stayin'? You don't waste a second do you, you old dog! Okay, so this girl, she was born January nineteenth in eighty-one. Born n' raised in L.A where she attended Hemery High until she was expelled aged fifteen."

"Why?"

"Burned down the gymnasium." …There was a pause from Bond. "Maybe she's the Cuban," he joked. "Anyway, after that she spent fifteen days at Grayfield's mental institution. Can't get any details on that without a warrant. Parents divorced, then she moved to Sunnydale with her mother. Attended Sunnydale High, disappeared for a few months – a runaway deal – showed up again, no details on that, graduated High School without the pyro-party and moved on to UC Sunnydale. She's also listed on the file of a criminal by the name of Faith LeHane currently serving time for manslaughter, murder, fleeing, among others. No criminal links with your girl, however. Other than the gym incident, she's clean. Minor issues over her appointment as legal guardian to a younger sister named Dawn but that was recently resolved favourably. Let me see, what else is there… Currently under the employ of Universal Personnel based in _London_… sound a little familiar? This was strange though, Jim… I got four people listed in Sunnydale under the same company. Not just co-workers but known associates. Alexander LaVelle Harris, same age, known associate since school, clean record. Willow Rosenberg, same again. And Rupert Giles, British passport, been under Universal Personnel for twenty years, also owns a business there – a gimmick store. He's been in Sunnydale for five years. Think he's been recruiting?"

"For what?"

"That one's a dead end. Tried to get the intel on this Universal company but I was turned away. Whatever it is it's protected by someone higher than CIA. You smell the same fish I do?"

Bond let out a reserved sigh. "That all?"

"All I got. Any luck with the Cuban?"

"Nothing yet. Thanks, Jack."

Bond set the phone back in its cradle and let his mind tick over. Smell a fish, he considered. There were those fish again. Something was certainly off with this Buffy Summers girl and her set up here. He'd think it over some more before–

His eyes had wondered out the window, across the lawn and beyond the tall palms to the car sat at the curb outside the house. A midnight blue car. A Saab 9000. …_His_ car!

Bond, oblivious to his feminine attire, rushed out the house and to the car parked on the road. It was his all right and the keys were still in the ignition right where he'd left them. He checked the boot and found his suitcase untouched. There was something else present, however, that had not been there before. On the backseat he found a box no larger than a shoebox. His first suspicion was that it might be a bomb. He paused. To hell with it, he thought, and shoved it under his arm. Someone wasn't playing with him last night just to blow him up in the morning. He took the box and the case and went back to the house.

The girls were waiting in the lobby when he returned. Buffy asked him what he was doing before spying the car. "That yours?"

"Yes."

"How–"

"I don't know."

"And that?" she said as he examined the box in his hands.

"It's new."

"What's inside?" asked Dawn with youthful curiosity.

Bond held the same curiosity and he lifted the top off warily. What he saw inside touched a chord within him that stopped his heart mid-beat.

Nestled on a bed of red silk lay a cross-shaped 6 inch black woven doll with a simple face of 3 short vertical slits – a mouth and 2 sleepy eyes – and string for hair.

"Cute," said Dawn. "Is it a Beanie Baby?"

"No," Will corrected.

Bond had a good idea what it was.

Willow knew exactly. "It's Voodoo."

--

"I need a cigarette." Bond put the box down on the table by the door. All his Morlands had gone up in smoke with the motel so he took his case and went to change.

The girls were left in the hallway and, from Willow's intense expression, Buffy could see that the little black doll had a presence to it like a black hole. She told Dawn to go get her stuff together. When she was gone, Willow led her away into the dining room.

"Buffy, this is serious stuff," she explained. "I mean, witches and warlocks can be pretty bad when we delve into dark magic, but this is _black_ magic. When Voodoo's used like this… it means trouble. And this James Bond is in a heap of it. We need to see Giles right now so we can nip this in the bud before it gets out of control."

"James doesn't know about this side of the world."

"Maybe it's time he found out."

"I'm not sure how he'd take it. People his age… you know, they only understand normal life. How are we gonna convince him?"

"That's why I think it'll be better coming from Giles. Besides, I don't think it's the first time he's seen something like this."

Buffy agreed. She'd seen his face when he opened the doll and the beads of sweat that formed across his forehead. The sign of a troubled history repeating.

"Tell Xander to meet us at the Magic Box."

-

Bond's clothes were well-packed and not too creased and he changed quickly into his dark blue serge suit, white summer shirt and black knitted silk tie, with well-polished black moccasin shoes, his gun holstered under his arm and the daggers strapped in place one above his ankle and one hanging to the inside of his trouser waist.

He was sweating. Close to that helpless state of panic again from the night before. Not knowing who his enemy was, nor what their objective might be. And now also was this haunting influence from the past. He remembered the thought of fish; thought again of the note on his car, saw the doll with its stitched dead eyes. It was personal. _Revenge_? he wondered. He and Felix had been targeted. They had both shared only one mission that involved Voodoo and the kind of sick wit of the message and doll. New York. Mr Big. Someone from Big's old organisation had somehow planned this to deliver payback. It was the only explanation that made any amount of sense. But it was so much trouble to set up and such an unlikely plot …yet… Bond himself had gone out of his way to pay Blofeld back for the murder of his dear wife Teresa. Was it really so unlikely then for a loyal member of Big's crew to retaliate? If so, the Black Widow Cult was back and he remembered just how dangerous they were and how easily they knew his movements. They'd known he was staying with Buffy last night and brought his car to him, just like they'd known when he'd arrived in New York years ago and delivered a bomb to his hotel room, just like they'd known about the safehouse where Felix had been returned to him in pieces. They were cruel, dangerous, ruthless, and well informed. And here was Bond knowing nothing. And that made him sweat.

-

When Bond returned to the front door, looking and feeling much more like himself again, the three girls were ready to go and he offered to drive them in his car, now that it was back.

"Your clothes are done if you wanna put 'em out to dry," Buffy said.

Bond considered it. Now that he had his bag he couldn't imagine putting those smoky rags back on. They were a skin he'd peeled away and had no intention of finding himself in again. No more horror, he told himself. "I shan't be needing them anymore…you can burn them," he said and went out the door.

--

Bond dropped Buffy's sister off at the mall where he found cigarettes, settling for a box of Marlboro's. He stood outside the shopping centre and smoked 2 in succession like he was sucking on life-saving air. His hands were shaking, due to the long absent nicotine in his system, he told himself.

Next they went to see the English man Rupert Giles. He arrived with the 2 young women at the gimmick shop, which had a notice – Closed for the day – there waiting was its owner and a young man Bond assumed was Alexander Harris. Bond had the boxed doll under his arm and Giles was quick to explain:

"Voodoo dolls like these are given as gifts – wishes that represent what the recipient wants. The doll, if blessed by a practising cult member, allows the possessor to contact the Loa spirits and make a request."

Bond thought the whole myth of Voodoo to be hokum but, for whoever sent it, it had a clear meaning. "What does this doll represent?"

"Death. Someone is offering you the chance to wish for your own death."

_No deal_ thought Bond. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Did you touch it?"

"What?"

"The doll. Did you pick it up or touch it at all."

"No. It's been in the box since I found it."

"Good. It hasn't had a chance to connect with you. There's no host for the wish. I can destroy it without it causing any harm."

Bond examined the man with suspicion as he took the box from him tentatively. "You…believe this rot?"

"Whether or not we believe it, it _is_ real." Giles' eyes betrayed no lie. "And you can read all about it yourself if you like. Here, the Yanus Guide to the Black Arts has a chapter on Haitian Voodoo rites. It's a good place to start."

The man from British Intelligence turned to Buffy questioningly. "Who the hell _are_ you people? And don't give me that neighbourhood watch crap. That telephone call this morning… was from a friend at the CIA. He told me about the mysterious company you all work for."

Giles set the doll down and defensively approached Bond. "The company we work for supplies last minute substitutes and permanent staff in various fields of employment."

"We go where we're needed," added Buffy.

Bond regarded her sceptically, seeing now that her sad puppy-dog eyes were not as innocent as they seemed. "In that case I find your employer incomprehensible. You live in Sunnydale yet your company sends a man from England to run a store here."

"It's his field."

"Voodoo magic?" None of them responded. "And yet you aren't working," he said to Buffy. "What's _your_ field exactly? Other than applying kung fu to neighbourhood watch?"

He watched them now with suspicious eyes as they remained tight-lipped. "Besides, your friend Mr Giles here doesn't run the magic shop, …he _owns_ it."

Rupert removed his spectacles and moved to sit at the table. On it were half a dozen thick open books.

Willow looked to Buffy and gave her a nod.

"You want to know what we do?" asked the Slayer. "Go ahead, Giles."

Rupert considered his words carefully and picked up a small black book, holding it between his palms like it held special importance. "What I'm about to tell you will surprise and alarm you. Your first instinct will be denial and disbelief. But if you search carefully into your own mind and allow the hidden truth there to surface, the world will begin to make sense in a way that answers all the mysteries of life."

"My God," Bond groaned with despair. "You're Jehovah's Witnesses."

"No," replied Giles, quite wounded. "We're part of a worldwide crusade to protect human civilisation from the dark underbelly of the supernatural terror network."

Bond stared at the man and his bible then looked around the room searching faces for evidence of the mockery he was being made of.

Xander picked the black book out of Giles' hands and presented Bond with an image of a gargoyle-like demon on the pages within. "We fight monsters, Mr Bond."

"I'm sorry?"

"Your friend, what was his name?"

He turned to answer Buffy. "Felix Leiter."

"Your friend Felix wasn't attacked by drug addicts that night. He was being hunted by vampires."

"I see." He took the book from Xander and flicked through it slowly, nodding as he came to the last page where he closed it thoughtfully and passed it to the blonde. "Did you _all_ spend time in a mental institute or just you?" He looked Buffy square in the eyes with a fire of anger behind his. "You're all insane. Are you part of the Cult?" He reached into his jacket and drew the Walther. His first suspicions had been true – the girl was the enemy, playing him for a fool! "I want some answers, Goddammit, and I've had enough of–" Suddenly his weapon was out of his hand.

Willow reached out with her mind, using her hand to guide the telekinetic energy, and dragged his gun across the room. It stopped, hovering 5 feet above the floor in the centre of their tense circle.

Bond's eyes widened and his bottom lip came loose as he watched his gun strip itself apart into its smallest components and remain suspended. His lips came together quickly, eyes narrowing as he searched the room for hidden devices.

"In case you still don't believe us…" Willow said to him, "...maybe it'll sink in while you're putting it back together."

The weapon, in all its pieces, moved and fell to the tabletop onto the pile of books.

Giles addressed him again. "I assure you…magic is real. Voodoo is very real, Mr Bond, and in the hands of a cult can be very dangerous." He indicated to the books on the round table. "Buffy asked me to gather some information for you. I haven't found anything on your 'Mister Blood' as yet but I did have better luck with the other name – the Cuban." That got Bond's attention. "Would you care to know what I've discovered for you?"

Bond, without meaning to, found himself sitting down across from Rupert Giles, fingering the parts of his dismembered gun, and nodding.

"The Cuban. He has his own chapter in the latest edition of the Watchers' Demonicron. Origin unknown, birth name unknown, permanent location unknown. What _is_ known is that he's a firestarter that's been operating for at least twenty years."

"We know this already," Bond replied distantly.

"Then you don't need me to explain what a firestarter is."

"He's an arsonist and explosives expert, probably ex-military, with the unique ability to mask any traces of explosives, detonators or incendiaries."

"Actually, no. He uses a form of telepathic manipulation known as pyrokinesis. He has mastered the ability to create and control fire, and possibly heat. His skill has become such that he is the only recorded firestarter with the ability to create explosions. There has never been any trace of detonating devices or flammables because he doesn't require them. He simply causes it to be. That's his unique ability, Mr Bond."

Bond stared again but this time no words came to him. On the table were parts of his gun that he'd never even seen before. Parts that could not be removed by magnetic field manipulation. Parts that could not be removed without specialist equipment. Even the oil within had been gathered into a small neat puddle and set carefully on a tissue nestled between two books.

"More importantly," Giles continued, "he is linked to the Dead Cell; a small band of demonic underworld mercenaries. If you happen to be rich, if you have a plan to wreak havoc and destruction and require specialist help, and if you can find them, there's a chance you can hire the services of the Dead Cell."

"The evil A-Team," from Xander.

"Quite," agreed Giles. "There's no detailed information on the group other than their leader may or may not be a shadow creature called the Wraith."

Bond was shown a picture in one of the books – an artist's impression of the Wraith.

A spark shot through his brain and he was back in his car on the dark wooded street the night before. The dark figure in the road!

Bond tried to sit down and realised he already was. Again he examined the events of the previous night. The dark figure, the mist… His Walther was still stripped and scattered before him on the tabletop. He leaned back, unable to respond, and stared into the serious face of Rupert Giles.

"There's also an unconfirmed description of the Cuban," Giles went on. "He's believed to be a Mexican; short and stout."

"He's a little teapot." Xander again.

"More like a crackpot," said Giles, looking over a passage on the page in front of him. "An eye-witness report describes a man with a psychotic temper. I resist the urge to say a fiery temper as it's written here, um… never without a cigar in his mouth. Always smokes Cubans. There's hearsay that he first discovered his ability when trying to light a cigar. Last seen sporting a handlebar moustache." He closed the fat book with a thump.

His mind was a mess of confusion, yet how could Bond consider any of it valid intelligence? "People can't just create fire out of thin air." Again a spark in his brain and his motel burned around him. And suddenly it stopped. A raging fire reduced to smouldering ash in an instant.

"Anyone can do it," Willow stated flatly. She picked a massive bound encyclopaedia from the far rack and put it down on the table under Bond's nose. The cover claimed to be the Lexicon of Fire. "Witches can learn to manipulate the elements, usually by memorising phrases and incantations or by careful use of potions and other assorted nik-naks. But anyone can perform simple fire conjuring spells by reading the words aloud from the book. Try it." She turned to a centre page filled with Latin and pointed out a section of text.

Bond looked it over. "Librum incendere?" The page erupted into flame and he snapped the book shut.

Xander let out a guffaw. He'd been there before.

Bond began to pull himself together. Something was sinisterly comedic about the whole set-up he was experiencing. "Nicely done. Very convincing." He started searching the Lexicon for a hidden gas canister.

"Will." The Slayer stepped forward. "No more child's play. Show him what he's up against."

Giles jumped aside rolling his eyes.

Willow flipped the table, blasted Bond's chair apart under him and slammed him back into Giles' desk. Bond experienced a moment of shock before he felt an unseen force throttle him and raise him to the ceiling.

He caught a glimpse of Willow's blackening eyes before his vision went into patches of abstract colour. "I'm a Witch, Mr Bond, and this isn't even a fraction of what I can do…and I'm one of the good guys. The people you're up against here are more powerful and more dangerous than me."

"Willow…" It was Giles. His voice soothed her darkness and James was set down on his shaking legs.

"Sorry about that," she said as the man gripped his throat and fell into the chair by the desk. "How's your neck? Again with the sorry." His bloodshot orbs pierced her with shock and horror. She quickly put his gun back together as a peace offering.

--

The next cohesive thought James Bond had was of leaving the mixed-up hellish carnival of the Magic Shop and walking with a girl who called herself the Slayer and a quirky young man with a singular wit to a champagne coloured Jeep Grand Cherokee and climbing in the back.

Xander took the driver's seat and Buffy climbed in the front beside him. As they pulled out and headed down the main street, she turned back to Bond sympathetically. "It's a little hard to swallow, isn't it?"

"She did strangle me rather hard," he said hoarsely. "… I mean…she didn't…but she did…"

"I meant the magic, witchcraft, Voodoo stuff."

"I don't believe it."

"Even after _that_?" She tossed her head to signal the store they had left behind.

"I still wouldn't believe that she could lift me up and strangle me so tightly if she'd done it with her bare hands. Let alone…"

"With telekinesis."

"That's not what happened." He looked out the window and watched the normal world slide by.

Buffy turned away. "Sure."

Images, thoughts, impossibilities, and confusion ran wild through Bond's mind as the Jeep moved into a familiar rough part of town. The dark wooded road and a man who vanished into the air. Or into the shadows? The mist from his engine that became a man. The Wraith. A motel fire so controlled it kept his room from harm until finally it consumed the building in its entirety before going out like a blown candle. The Cuban. Insanity. After a few minutes he wondered if he'd said aloud one of the random thoughts of insanity flying around his brain because the girl was talking away, projecting her voice back at him.

"…I got my powers when the last Slayer got…slayed. It's like a mystical genealogy thing. One dies, the next gets called."

"You have powers?"

"Uh-huh."

"And what exactly do you think your powers are?"

"Still sceptical, James? What are we gonna do with you?"

"Humour me."

"Alright. I have super strength, vampire-sense – like Spider-Man's spider-sense only with vamps instead of spiders. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"And… well, I heal like super fast and a whole bunch of other little extras. Agility, stamina–"

"Stamina?"

"Yes…" Her eyes were thin but playful as she detected the sexual undertone to his question. "Oh and I can flip my tongue right over."

"Stamina and a loose tongue. You _are_ formidable, aren't you."

"Mock away, Mr Bond," said Xander. "But you'll be laughing on the other side of your quiff when she busts that stiff upper lip all over your face."

Buffy gave him a soft punch in the arm.

Xander zipped his mouth up and threw the key away when the Englishman's eyes targeted him through the rear-view mirror.

Bond looked out at the passing streets again and frowned. "Where are we going?"

"To talk to someone else we know with a loose tongue."

--

Bond soon found himself back at Willy's Place. Only now it was empty. He thought of his visit there the night before and the unusual patrons he'd seen. The naked man with the tan stood out in his memory because, now he considered it, it hadn't just been a tan, had it? The skin had been red. Red as blood. And why had he been naked? And… had he actually possessed a tail…? Bond shook the thought away. He and Buffy were in the doorway of the small bar and there was no sign of an owner.

"Let me handle this," whispered Buffy. "There's a way to deal with Willy."

"You seem to think I'm along for the ride, Miss Summers."

The rear door opened up and the weasely barman Bond had met before appeared. "Slayer. Nice surprise." He moved behind the bar like a captain at the helm of his ship and put his hands down on the wooden surface confidently, a beer towel under one hand. "Haven't had the pleasure of your angelic face in my modest little establishment for some time. Heard you were a big league jet-setter these days."

Buffy whispered to Bond again. "Leave this to me. With Willy you just need to–"

Something, maybe lack of patience, maybe the fact this weasel who clearly knew things he kept secret had likely played Bond for an idiot the previous night, caused Bond to snap. He shot across the room, whipped the towel out from under the man's hand, cracked it across his ratty face and dragged him over the bar by his cheap collar.

Before Willy knew where he was, the cold end of a gun barrel was planted against his left temple. Willy could only gasp.

"I know a little about interrogation," Bond said. "Torture techniques." He drew back the hammer of his gun for emphasis.

Willy turned white, his face full of panic. "Torture? Whoa, whoa, okay… I heard the Cuban was in town … on official 'D.C' business."

"Dead Cell?" Buffy asked, joining the interrogation.

"Don't say that! Are you crazy? People get dead just hearing about 'em! God, don't talk about that!" The Englishman gave him a shake. "Anyway they're in league with some Voodoo big wig, okay. I dunno who or why and, quite frankly, I know when to keep my nose out." The Slayer didn't look convinced. "I don't wanna get it burned off."

"Where do we find them?" demanded Bond.

"I don't know, I swear. But I heard… hell… I heard the Cuban likes barbecue. Gotta see the irony there, eh? There's a restaurant, real swish joint, expensive too. Maybe I heard he likes to eat out a lot. Maybe I heard he likes to eat out at this place a lot. Some oriental thing, I dunno."

The Slayer gave him a slap on the head. "Do better."

"Royal somethin'. That's all I got, Slayer. C'mon, that's all I got. It's everythin'. I swear."

"It's enough." Bond released the toad and went out to the street for some air and a smoke.

A moment later Buffy joined him. "You look pretty smug. Did I miss something?"

Bond had the break he was waiting for. He remembered the flyer on his car. The Cuban at the Royal Kōtei House. He had been invited after all. The game was afoot. A trap set. This time, James Bond was ready to walk into it. Anything for answers. For real truth.

He looked Buffy up and down and she puzzled at the inspection of her figure. Now he had a strong beautiful partner to help him and the trap seemed less daunting. "Tonight you'll put on your best dress. We're going out for dinner and you should look like a dream."

--

At 8 o'clock that evening when James Bond stood at the base of the stairs at 1630 Revello in his single-breasted dinner jacket and black satin tie and saw Buffy Summers appear on the landing in her evening wear, his heart jumped. He'd asked for a dream and what met him was just that. She descended the stairs in an elegant black Christian Lacroix dress; a geranium silk one-shoulder full-length gown with self-tie sash and ruched sides and a matching silk scarf tied around her neck with the ribbons flowing down her back. She'd taken the top of her hair and swept it back tying it loosely, the remainder falling in waves down the smooth skin of her back. Her soft lips pink and shining, her cheeks highlighted with a subtle flush of red makeup.

"How do I look?"

To say he approved was a great understatement. "…Couture. You look splendid."

"Great." She smoothed out the dress. "It was half price on eBay." She looked around at her home; so quiet without Dawn there who would usually be the first one to smooth out any kinks in her gown. She wished her sister were there, as she suddenly became aware of her own femininity, standing alone with this tall dark enigmatic stranger. She quickly found something to say. "I don't have a bag to go with it."

"You won't need one," replied Bond. "Tonight a gentleman is taking you out. Besides, you look perfect without it."

Bond walked her to his rented Saab and wished he could have had the use of his own car for the evening. "I'm afraid the car doesn't do you justice tonight."

She blushed as he opened the door for her. "Get out," she said shyly and got in.

"My other car's a Bentley."

"Get _out_."

--

"Peregrine Carruthers. I'm with Transworld Consortium."

The young Asian-American girl on the reception podium of the Royal Kōtei House restaurant looked over her guest book. She brushed loose arrows of her bleached blonde hair over her ear and smiled up at the British man and his date. "Right this way, please." She led them to table six and held the seats out for each to sit. "Is there anything I can get you both to start with?"

"Give us a moment," Bond replied, sitting, and removing his slightly crumpled pack of Marlboro's. Not only had he lost his Turkish blend but also his cigarette case.

"I'm afraid this is a non-smoking restaurant," the girl said through her fixed smile. "For that matter, it's a non-smoking State."

"America. Land of the free." He folded the cigarettes away and the girl returned to her podium. Bond looked around the room. It was a clean, well-kept facility with rouge walls and faux Oriental décor. Wooden timber posts rising to an apexed roof and wood cladding along the lower walls. There were thirty tables in the open-plan dining area each given partial privacy with hatched wooden screens. He examined Buffy as she perused the menu card, complete with images of the food they would expect. Some of the light was gone from her eyes. "You look sad."

"This was the place my mom came on her last date before…before she died."

An American waitress approached with a pad and asked if they were ready to order.

Bond hadn't even seen the menu but suspected it wouldn't help. "Actually I'm not particularly well-versed in Asian cuisine."

"May I?" Buffy asked.

"By all means. And don't hold back."

"We'll have the soup starter and the Kotei set dish for two and… let's get shochu."

"Is that the rice, barley or potato shōchū?" asked the server.

"Rice."

"Would you like that with ice or a mixer?"

"No that's fine."

"In a glass or bottle?"

"Um…"

"Bottle," Bond decided.

When the waitress was gone, Bond sat back and sighed. "How long has it been? Just you and your sister?"

"About a year and a half."

"You manage very well I think."

She smiled slightly at his compliment. It was good to hear as she was never sure herself. "It's been difficult. Being a mom, a Slayer and a housekeeper takes its toll. But things are easier now. I couldn't have survived without Dawn. She's my life now."

"What about your father? He doesn't help?"

"Who?…No. He's…well, he died to me a long time ago."

Bond regarded her for a passing moment. She was so strong and so weak. So fragile yet cut from steel. Like a diamond she was, looking like glass but beautiful and unbreakable. "We're both orphans in a way."

She looked at him with renewed strength again as she realised, in their brief time together, she'd shared so much about herself with this mysterious man and yet knew nothing in return. "Who _are_ you, Mr Bond?"

"Let's just say…I'm a kind of policeman."

"Policemen wear badges. What are you?" Buffy leaned forward. "Hitman?" she breathed.

"On occasion."

Her eyes widened. "Private Eye?"

"Warmer."

She smiled. "Secret Agent?"

"Getting a little too hot. Let's change the game. This time we'll play who are you?"

"We played it already. Tell me about the spy game."

Their soup and alcohol arrived along with the sauces for the main course. They were set carefully around the gridiron plate in the centre of the table.

They were alone again. "It's really about psychology," Bond explained. "Knowing how people think – especially the enemy – judging character and action. The most important thing is to notice every detail in all you see. But, truthfully, the spy game is mostly luck."

"Observation and luck," she noted.

"Now for your first lesson in observation." He used the soup eating as a cover for beginning their work for the evening. "What did you notice before you sat down here?" he asked and took a sip. The soup was a chicken and corn broth.

Buffy thought hard. "The mixed meat platter's on special today?"

"Besides that."

"Oh! The girl at reception needs to dye her roots before she gets the skunk look."

Bond rolled his eyes. "The Cuban's here. Table thirteen."

Buffy looked up at him in surprise. "Where? How do you know where table thirteen is?"

"The table guide was on the receptionist's board."

"Oh. That's what you mean by 'observation'."

"Absolutely. The most insignificant knowledge can prove to be the most valuable. And, as for 'luck', it's just our luck that our target is here tonight. That's two lessons in one evening. Not bad, I'd say."

She smiled again and made an effort to look focused on her starter. "Where do I look?"

"When I tell you, look around to your right quickly. Look for a large African man with a smooth head. His back is to us. To his right there's a second man, he may be Haitian, with a vague expression. Too drunk I expect. To the big man's left is the target. Spaniard. Handlebar moustache. The Cuban."

Buffy waited tensely. She had to look fast so as not to draw attention, yet record every detail she could manage in that second.

"Now." As Buffy glanced back, Bond made a gesture like he was removing something caught in her hair. When she turned back she returned to the soup.

"Observations?"

"The Spaniard fits the description." She'd seen a chubby man with bronzed rough skin, a dark mess of hair and a thick moustache that ran down the sides of his large mouth to his chin.

Bond nodded. "We'll stay until they leave then try to follow."

"The big man wasn't eating," she added.

He gave another nod, impressed by how quickly she learned.

"And the guy with the vague expression isn't drunk. His skin is dry and his eyes too white. He's a zombie."

Bond frowned and looked again. "You think drugs?"

"No… he's a zombie. He's dead."

Their main meal arrived, cuts of raw beef fanned out on a silver platter with vegetables arranged around it on a bed of leaves. The server ignited the wood charcoals beneath the gridiron. Buffy thanked the waitress and spread some of the food out on the grill.

They ate silently, the situation now a little more sinister than a simple Mexican-hunt.

A quarter of an hour later, Bond sat up a little straighter. It was subtle but Buffy noticed.

"They're leaving."

Bond was watching but Buffy forced herself not to turn. She'd wait until they passed by. When she saw the Englishman's face turn white she had to look.

Three men passed them. The Cuban was no surprise. Short and stout just as Giles had said. Behind him was the African with the bald head, dressed in a tuxedo. Now that he was up and moving, she could see he was impossibly large. Both tall and heavy-set, but not fat. His skin had a greyness and his eyes were covered by dark spectacles. Trailing behind him was the zombie, walking like a puppet under the will of a master. She looked back to Bond to see the sweat breaking out on his forehead again. "If we're following we should go now," she pushed.

Bond was lost. The giant man with the grey-brown skin had turned his way for just an instant as he passed by and… smiled. That unmistakable face… even under the glasses…his impossible size… the harsh tone of his skin… but most of all the face… He couldn't believe… He was seeing a dead man.

"What is it?"

Bond's eyes found Buffy's. It took longer for him to find words. "…Mr Big," he wheezed, and dropped his head into his hands.

--

James had been distant as Buffy guided him to Giles' home in the Saab. He'd changed his mind about following the Cuban when he'd seen a familiar face. He wanted time to think. If someone was aiming to unnerve him and throw him off-balance, it was working. Once at Giles' home, Bond was offered tea. He took bourbon instead. Xander brought Willow and she set up her laptop. Now that she was part of the Council's elite Slay-Team, her hacking skills were in a higher league than ever before and there were some questions that magic couldn't answer.

The group sat together in Rupert's den with Willow at the desk. Bond remained standing with the liquor in his hand.

Giles sipped tea. "Tell me about Mr Big."

Bond gritted his teeth and thought back to his time in New York. "His name was Buonapart Ignace Gallia. Half French, half Haitian, and a possible former soviet agent for an organisation called SMERSH. He was the head of the underworld Black Widow Voodoo Cult. His followers believed him to be the Voodoo God Baron Samedi. He's dead. I watched him die myself. Devoured alive by shark and barracuda. Whoever that man was he was there to cause this reaction. Damn, I should have followed them."

Giles set down his cup and picked out an old green book from his personal library. "I can't tell you about your Mr Big but I can tell you a good bit about Baron Samedi and I think you'll find it interesting considering you saw a dead man tonight."

Bond sat down. He knew he was in for another wild story.

Giles found his desired chapter in the book and explained. "The God of Cemeteries and chief of the legion of the dead. In Voodoo he is known as Baron Saturday, Baron Cimetiere, and Baron La Croix. He is one of the Loa – a big man in Voodoo circles. The Loa of the dead. The name sam'di literally meaning 'Do as I say'. He's the boss. He stands at the crossroad where the souls of dead humans pass on their way to the underworld. Images often represent him as a dark figure in a white top hat with a skull-like face wearing a tuxedo and dark glasses as if prepared for burial in the Haitian style. …This is interesting. It mentions Osiris, the Egyptian God of life and death, redeemer and merciful Judge of the dead and the afterlife."

"Lets hear it for the mercy of Osiris," said Xander, giving Buffy's shoulder a knock.

Bond puzzled at them.

"He was my merciful judge when I died," explained Buffy.

"You died?"

"A couple of times."

Giles continued. "It goes on to say that Samedi is a direct conduit to Osiris. A _living_ urn of Osiris, you might say. He can command the power of the higher God as he has been appointed the Loa of the dead and resurrection for the Voodoo tribe _by_ Osiris." He closed the book.

"Looks like your Mr Big retired from his old life after you retired him of it," said Buffy. "Now he's playing himself."

Bond drank.

Buffy mulled things over. "Baron Samedi must be the big evil that's bringing the virus-vamps into town."

"Hominus nocturna," said Giles.

"He can resurrect himself. _And_ control the dead," Buffy thought aloud.

"I've been working on some computer stuff," Willow came in. "highly illegal of course. Checked hotels et cetera, cross-referencing possible aliases. Came up with an actual property purchase by a Buonapart La Croix."

Bond sat up. His alias!

"What property?" asked the Slayer.

Willow gave her a knowing look. "You remember Dracula's castle?"

* * *

- Just a note to mention that the name 'Dead Cell' is from Metal Gear Solid. The group is different and I just liked the name -

- If you're wondering about the Blade vampires in this story or why Dawn referred to Buffy being a Porsche, please see Episodes 1 and 2 of my Secret Agent Slayer Series -


	5. Château de la Mort

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

--

_Ch__â__teau de la Mort_ / 00**5**

Two figures in black stealth-wear crawled into a scouting position behind a small rise of earth and began their surveillance. James Bond, in his night camouflage with gun holstered over his clothes and dagger strapped to his leg, looked out over the mound of soil with a tiny night scope pressed against his eye. Beside him, in a tight black bodysuit, Buffy Summers took out her chewing gum and stuck it in the dirt. It was midnight and the moon was high.

Bond saw the small castle beyond a low dry stone wall nestled among a colony of oak trees. The main door stood at the head of a small flight of steps and beside it a thin tower rose with a bare flagpole at the apex.

"You remember the objective?" he said.

"Recon," replied Buffy with a nod. "Gather intelligence, and get out."

"Right. That way we can retaliate informed and in control." He knew Buffy usually ran her own show just as he did but now his world of crime and her world of...strangeness...were interwoven and they both understood the logic of Bond's approach and Buffy seemed to respect his experience. They were both secret agents with different objectives.

Buffy watched him as he scanned ahead with his night toy. "You do that a lot? Scouting?"

"Yes."

"Cool. How long do you usually wait before you go back?"

"…Well… as a matter of fact I usually get caught."

"Oh."

"Had a few knocks on the head."

"Just like Giles. Must be an English thing."

"What about you?"

"I usually rush in, bite off more than I can chew, get my ass kicked, and come back later."

Bond frowned at her. "What makes the second attack more successful than the first?"

"The second attack… that mostly comes once I have the right tools. There's always a magic troll hammer or a spell or a sword that's made to do the job. Once we know about it, we find it and I use it. Or sometimes, like recently, its Daylight Mines or alien pulse cannons."

"Uh-huh," he replied with a little uncertainty. "And tonight?"

"This." She pulled out her weapon of choice.

"A sharp stick?"

"Comes as standard with every Slayer action figure." She smiled warmly at her own joke and slipped the stake into her belt.

Bond returned to his scope. "There's one guard on patrol." He showed her through the eyepiece.

"He's dead."

"Relax. If we wait until he's around the corner we have two minutes to look around before he comes back this way."

"I mean; he's dead. Baron Samedi controls death like a puppetmaster controls wood. You just can't see the strings. You gotta start thinking outside the box on this one."

"Outside the box? I'm beginning to wonder if anything inside the box is real anymore."

"Oh, everything inside the box is real it's just there's other stuff goin' on outside the box that the people inside the box can't see 'cos they're inside the box, but if they look outside the box they'll see what's goin' on and there's a better way to explain this."

"Please don't try." Bond put his scope into a small pouch usually reserved for ammo. "Alright, let's take a closer look. How are you with hand signals?"

She gave him the finger.

Bond's face was stern.

"I'm kidding. You mean like…" she balled her fist and pulled an invisible chain, spun her index finger in a circle, and petted a pretend dog.

Bond nodded, satisfied. He was about to leave when he stopped and turned back to her.

"Yes," she cut in; "I know what they mean."

He nodded again and moved out.

Quietly, they both moved up the rise and across a narrow dirt road, silently scaling the stone steps. Ahead was the wooden arched main door and a walkway edged by a low wall with staggered lamps ran off around the building to their right. There was a small window to the right of the entrance and Bond went to it. Buffy joined him and they peered in carefully. The castle was silent but within they saw an empty stone corridor with a wide opening leading to the right. On either side of that stood two rotten corpses looking like the sick collection of a taxidermist standing guard.

"That leads into the main hall," whispered Buffy.

"Is there a window into that room?"

She nodded. "Around the side."

Bond began to move off until a crack drew his attention into the shrubs below the patio wall. One of those dead-looking men was standing beneath them by the dirt track – looking right at them with its dead eyes. Buffy grabbed him and pulled him down behind the wall. They waited. Within seconds they heard the slow labouring footsteps of the guard moving to the steps. Bond edged over toward the stairs and prepared to pounce.

Buffy nudged him from behind. "Use your knife. Stab it in the eye."

"What?" Footfalls on the stone steps – it was coming.

"Zombies are dead weight without a brain so put your knife in its head. If you don't _I_ will."

He felt a sudden stab at his ego. He was James Bond; deadly, brave, dangerous weapon of the British Secret Service. He wasn't about to step aside to let a woman do a job that he could not! "All right." He unclipped the dagger from his leg sheath.

The guard's scuffed black boots landed beside him on the porch and Bond jumped to his feet, thrusting the sharp end of his blade into the first eye that met him. Bond was shocked by his own brutality but the man only gasped and did not fall. Instead, after a moment feeling around at the handle protruding from its head, it reached out for him with a deep sigh. Bond froze.

Buffy appeared from the shadows, ripped the dagger free and in one swift cut severed the man's head. It dropped to the stone ground at their feet as the body fell backward down the steps. James could only look at the uncompromising slayer in surprise.

"If you remove a zombie's head the body dies even though the head's still undead," she explained matter-of-factly. "Best way to finish them off… destroy the brain completely." She stamped her foot down on the fallen head and squashed the dead man's skull; the brain inside reduced to a paste.

Bond didn't know whether to show her respect or disgust. He didn't have time for either when he noticed the black mist rising behind her and surrounding her. He pulled his gun as Buffy was wrapped in the mist – not mist but shadow – and the dark figure Bond had seen in the road the night before – skin impossibly black, long matted hair, and shadowy ragged clothes – materialised before his eyes with Buffy tightly caught in his grip. The Wraith!

Bond fired. His gun spat a bullet through the Wraith's face and into the castle's stone wall. The black face went unharmed. A sudden thought occurred to him. _You can't shoot a shadow!_

A crackling sound drew his attention behind him and Bond spun with his raised weapon to find the Cuban ready for him – his arms alight with fire.

"Don't try it, gringo."

James Bond couldn't react. He couldn't think. What were his options? He didn't even know. How could he when all the laws of nature and reality were up in smoke? He looked to Buffy for guidance. She was bound in the arms of a shadow man but with her hand he saw her subtly pat the dog. The signal had a different meaning in the field but he knew what she was saying. He relaxed and slipped his gun away, hoping he wouldn't be asked to hand it over. He wasn't.

The Cuban put out his flames and took hold of Bond. "This way."

They were pushed into the castle and through the cold stone corridor. The door was locked behind them. Bond understood why Buffy wanted to be taken without a fight. They were being led right to the Big Man. What Bond didn't know was that she fully intended to wup some major ass and be at home relaxing within the hour.

Inside the building there were zombies and vampires everywhere and they were taken into the main hall where the two members of the Dead Cell handed them over to a small group of zombie henchmen with tight grips. Bond scanned his surroundings quickly. He saw a fireplace under arched sandstone blocks, a staircase with no rail on a 90 degree curl went up to a small landing with a large window flanked by tapestries. If they could get up to that window, there was a chance of escape. There would be more men outside now, he considered. Above them, candle chandeliers lined the ceiling. There was a second spiral stair leading up to a tower, he guessed. And then he saw the dead man he knew sitting at the head of a long table. Wearing a white top hat, his face painted with a white skull, dressed in a crisp tuxedo, was Mr Big. The shadow man and the Cuban stood beside him.

"I saw you die." It was all Bond could say.

Then the man spoke in that strong intelligent voice Bond remembered so well. "You came much sooner than I predicted. I expected a CIA investigation would come first."

"This _is_ the CIA investigation."

There was a tense moment between the two foes.

The Slayer broke it. "What are you doing in my town?"

"_Your_ town? Your town is going to be my town soon enough."

Bond struggled against the arms that held him. "What's all this about, Big? What the hell's going on?"

"Aren't you enjoying my game? That's right; _my_ game. I've been playing you all along, Mister Bond. Your every move orchestrated by me."

"For revenge?"

"Not revenge. Repayment. You took one life from me and now I owe you the same."

"I've been dead once, you're a little late."

"I've heard about that. Poison from a dagger hidden in a shoe, wasn't it? But you didn't stay dead, did you? Someone brought you back."

"And you want to finish the job? You've gone to a lot of trouble just to kill me."

"I don't just want to kill you. I don't even intend to devise a cunning death for you and simply deal it. I wanted to take you out of your world and plunge you into Hell. Then watch you die at the hands of the one closest to you."

There came a second of confusion for Bond when he tried to grasp the meaning of such a powerful statement. It was beyond him. The one closest to him…? Then it occurred to him as he caught sight of one of the dead-looking figures that stood at Big's side…

"Felix! God, what have you– …is he…?"

"Dead, Mister Bond? Yes. And brought back to die again. Your colleague is now one of the few who have the chance to die twice. Like vampires. Like you. But I should warn you…

You only die twice, Mister Bond. The death I have selected for you is both ingenious and poetic. Mister Leiter will devour you alive, just as I saw him devoured by shark and you saw me devoured by barracuda. The circle will complete itself."

"You're a sick beast," spat Buffy.

"I pride myself on it, Miss Summers. If Bond had been married, it would have been his wife. If he had a child, it would have been his child. But Bond's work _is_ his life and Mister Leiter is the closest thing he has to a partner." He turned his attention back to Bond. "I did consider M, the father figure. Unfortunately he is not easily accessible. But Leiter was. To lure you I first needed to lure him. It was a simple matter to use the CIA. I enlisted the services of a man the CIA want; a man Leiter knows."

"The Cuban."

"You brought in the Dead Cell," Buffy prodded.

The Cuban grunted back. "Be careful when you use that name, girlie," he responded in a thick Mexican accent.

Big continued; "Once Leiter arrived in Sunnydale, I had him captured and brought to me."

"It took a couple of tries though, right?" said the Slayer. "I remember kicking some hominus nocturna ass."

"Still, everything has played out exactly as I expected." He went back to Bond. "I did not, however, expect you to join with this Slayer, but slight modifications to the design I had prepared for you were easily accomplished."

Bond again looked about the room and thought of the stairs and the window. He needed air. Time to think. Get Felix out. Get Buffy out. Get himself out of this madness.

"As for you, Miss Summers," Big went on, "you stand in the way of my rule of the Hellmouth. It is a shame that you found yourself involved in helping Bond. I had hoped he might kill you along the way but now you too will face the death Bond faces – at the hands of your closest love."

This time it was Buffy who was stunned by the words of Baron Samedi. His plan, in all its horrific glory, became all too clear to her when a girl was brought out from behind Big's throne. The Cuban pulled the young brunette into the open and smiled as Buffy's face exploded in despair.

"Dawn!"

"Buffy! They killed Louise and her mom!" Dawn was reeled back violently.

Buffy gritted her teeth and stemmed the explosion within her. She tried to stay calm for her sister. "It's alright, Dawn, I'm gonna kill them all."

"I'm so hungry, Buffy. They didn't give me anything at all." Again she was pulled back by the Mexican.

"Don't worry." Buffy struggled to contain her fear and rage. "When we get out of here we'll celebrate with a Summers take-out medley, okay?"

"That's all right." Dawn then settled and stood tall. "The Baron ordered in for me." She smiled and the candlelight caught her long sharp fangs.

"No…" Buffy couldn't breath. Her sister… her dependant… her blood… her love…

Gone.

Dead.

Vampire.

Buffy spasmed as her eyes flooded over "No no no no no no… NO! _DAWN_!"

In her rage and confusion and horror, Buffy broke free and ran across the room. She had to reach Dawn! Take hold of her tightly! Tear her out of the nightmare and save her!

Dawn was set loose and she met her sister head-on, screaming with newly discovered anger and smashing her with a fierce kick.

Buffy rose up into the air, narrowly missed cracking her skull on the chandeliers, and fell in a heap on the high landing.

Bond, equally stunned, tore one arm loose and punched his way free. When Buffy landed above him he was already ascending the stairs in a desperate run, firing his gun at the glass of the large window. He reached the landing where Buffy lay prone and he looked quickly out the window at the trees and the fall and the darkness. He hoped Buffy really was strong as he pulled her up and threw her into the tree where she crashed to the ground. He tucked his gun away and jumped. His ribs took a nasty beating as he hit the branch of the high oak and tumbled through the foliage to the earth. He landed awkwardly on his feet and felt his left ankle sprain under the pressure. He didn't think about his pain but looked around, seeing no one close by. Though surprised, he was grateful and he dragged Buffy away, half-conscious, into the darkness beyond the castle's rear. He pushed her, dragged her and carried her through the blackness until the moonlight glistened far below across the Pacific Ocean. He stopped when he suddenly became aware of the cliff edge dead ahead and the sheer drop to the water below. He looked around, hearing no sign of a pursuit. He tried to ask Buffy for guidance but she was a blank doll in his arms. Moving along the cliff he soon saw the crescent of a beach beginning far below. Bond pulled Buffy along the cliff edge until he found a pathway leading down to the beach. It was a steep sandy climb down but in minutes they made it onto the level sands with the lights of the town not far away. Once there Bond felt safe enough to stop and he let the girl fall to her knees. His own body cried out in pain. He watched the pathway long enough to satisfy himself that no one followed from the castle of death.

The ocean breeze passed over him, cooling the sweat that soaked his clothes. He lowered himself to the sand and sagged.

"Big allowed us to escape," he uttered after a time.

"…Why?" Buffy's words were distant and almost silent against the soft movement of the waters. "Why the hell would he do that and not just _kill_ us? Why didn't they just _KILL_ us?"

He heard the rawness of her pain in every word. "He knows we'll go back into his death trap…because we must. We must for Felix and for Dawn. And for ourselves."

Bond wasn't leaving alive without taking Felix home. And Big had to die for what he did to Buffy. He knew the pain of loss and revenge all too well. But, between the two, there was the endless empty void. Buffy was there now.


	6. Live and Let Slay

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

--

_Live and Let Slay_ / 00**6**

The home of Rupert Giles had become emergency command central and James Bond watched on as the tight group of friends experienced anguish, disbelief and anger, turning it into fuel for an onslaught. He was along for the ride now and it was clear there was no point in arguing. From the moment Buffy had stood up firmly on that dark beach and began her mad dash home, he was just following. He'd arrived back here to see the tears. But not from Buffy. Harris and Willow were red-eyed and Giles was frantic, but Buffy Summers was a machine; barking orders and rallying her team.

Willow was now on her computer, accessing their employer's secure server.

"I'm gonna use our connections," Buffy had stated confidently. "Try to get hold of Blade. Get a cure." Willow had offered to help in their retaliation but Buffy had shot her down firmly. "I need you to devote all your skills to tracking down Blade. He was going to Tokyo. Contact Station J and find him."

Now Buffy was pacing. "Where the hell's Spike? I need his help bringing Dawn in until I get a cure. It's a virus. Just a virus."

"Buffy–" Giles began.

"Xander – check Spike's crypt, check everywhere, ask Willy – burn his place to the ground if you have to – find out where he is and get him here."

Xander regarded her with concerned sore eyes.

"Xander!"

He grabbed his jacket and went out the door.

"Buffy–" Giles began again.

She left the den and disappeared into the bathroom.

Giles picked up two open books and notes and moved to the desk.

"She's unstable," Bond noted. "Do you think she can handle this?"

"She can handle it," replied Will. "For as long as she needs to."

"She thought she'd lost Dawn once before," Giles explained. "It crippled her. She became… catatonic. I think the only way she can continue is to tell herself there's a cure for Dawn's virus."

"Is there?"

"I don't know," Rupert admitted. "If there were, Blade would be curing vampires not slaying them."

Bond didn't know who Blade was, but could gather he was in the same field of business as Buffy. He wondered if it had anything to do with the vigilante killer of the same name that the FBI had on their wanted list.

"Xander brought this for you."

Bond looked to the Englishman who held a small modified weapon in his hand. "Is that a Heckler & Koch?"

"You'd have to ask Xander, I'm afraid. Blade gave this to him."

"He took the whole thing apart to smuggle it into the country and put it back together again. He likes to brag about it." Willow pointed to the magazine. "There's only eight bullets but they're hollow silver with garlic essence inside. Vampire's bane."

Bond thanked them and took it. He still didn't believe in vampires. It was ludicrous, after all.

Buffy returned after a time, her hair pulled back tightly once again.

"I've discovered something," Giles said, keeping to business so as not to alienate her. "As Samedi can resurrect continually, I spoke to someone at Station X who happens to know a few undocumented facts about Samedi and his potential weakness. It just so happens that we can kill two birds with one stone. All we need is the Slobbu."

"I could be wrong," said Will, "but isn't that more like killing two birds with…a bird?"

Buffy's face dropped. "The Slobbu…"

"You didn't forget about the Slobbu did you?" It was clear to Giles from her look that the question was moot. Giles moved quickly, picking up his books. "Okay, you're going to need some things. It may be awake already. Though, if it was, I think we'd know about it by now. Go to the sepulchre, find the Slobbu and put it to sleep quickly. But after you say the incantation you need to do something… The Slobbu, before it became an Earth-bound demon, had another name – the Fiery Gehenna, or Dragon's Breath. It was Osiris's guardian to the gateway of Hell whose breath heralded the fires of damnation. Constantine, in combining Pagan and Christian religions, wanted to 'Paganise' hell by removing the flame of hell – the Slobbu. He did; his army dragged it out of the Hellmouth by chains, locking it in sleep in his crypt. The crypt that now lies in Sunnydale."

Buffy didn't look interested.

"Baron Samedi is vulnerable to a single stab to the heart from the 'blade of Osiris' – a weapon found on the armour of Osiris's guardian of hell – the Slobbu. Then you should be able to kill him like any other zombie."

"So, I need a blade from the demon's armour," she noted.

"If the Slobbu is already free you may need this," he showed her a picture in one of the books, "to get its attention in order to recite the words. You remember?"

She nodded. The image in the book was of a torch-type device on a short staff.

"You'll find it in the basement of the Magic Box in the chest there. It should bring the beast to you. Be warned – this will only bring the beast under control for a limited time so work quickly. One more thing… If it _is_ out of the crypt… once you put it back to sleep… you'll have to get it back inside."

"Are you ready?" she asked Bond.

He wasn't sure, but he affirmed.

"There's something else," said Will. "An extra weapon I've put together. It isn't at full capacity yet but if you stop by Tara's place and pick it up before… before you go back there… it might help."

Buffy, emotionless, nodded and led a baffled Bond away.

--

It was the darkest of nights as James Bond ran into Heaven's Gate cemetery on the heels of Buffy Summers and stopped as soon as the opening in the wall of trees was in sight. His lungs burned and he damned himself for allowing his exercise routine to slip of late. He composed himself before entering through the crypt's wall of evergreens. There he found Buffy, standing before the boxy tomb with a face as severe as he'd ever seen. He recognised the shock and trauma in her and her resulting emotional detachment. Her sister was, as far as Bond could gather, dead, and now Buffy was a machine focused on some impossible task. She was still in her black bodysuit only now a large sack hung over her back. They'd stopped first at the Magic Shop for the unusual lantern that was now in that very sack. Its purpose, Bond could only guess. Or, to be more precise, he could not. He only knew that Big had survived the fish frenzy somehow years ago and now lived as Baron Samedi, that he, Bond, had his guns and his hands and he'd use them as he always did for the fight that was ahead of them. He began to wonder if Felix had been drugged up to his eyeballs by Big or if, however unlikely, he really was a living corpse. Then he saw the crypt.

He stepped alongside Buffy and shared in her severity as he cocked one eyebrow at the sight ahead. The huge timber door was blasted off its hinges, exploded outward across the grass, and deep scars ran up the limestone walls of the sepulchre that had not been there before.

Something had broken out.

Bond ran his tongue around his dry mouth. "What–"

"Shh." She began to look around them, searching the area for signs of life.

"What are you–"

"Shhh. It's loose."

Bond waited and wondered what on earth could have caused such damage to the chamber. His first instinct told him it was an elaborate forgery. He was being…what did the Americans call it?… punk'd?

A large branch snapped loudly in the distance.

He trailed Buffy around the side of the crypt in time to see the trees that shook gently before in the breeze now rocked. There was something behind there. A low grunt followed as if from a giant beast. Bond thought of King Kong.

Buffy suddenly sounded worried, "Did Giles happen to mention three words in Latin?"

"Yes, in fact he did. Somnus iterum bestia. I believe it means 'Sleep again beast'. He said you'd likely forget. Or mispronounce."

"He wasn't wrong. If things get ugly…use them."

"To do what exactly?"

"To put whatever that thing is back to sleep for a hundred years."

"Right. Of course."

She regarded him with disappointment. His sarcasm and pessimism was beginning to irritate her. The Slobbu sounded a lot bigger than Buffy had expected and she prayed the controly torchy thing worked as advertised.

An orange glow erupted behind the trees and dissipated into a plume of smoke that rose up grey against the black sky. They looked at each other and moved back slowly towards the crypt's secluded exit. Buffy stopped at the opening between the trees and put a hand back for him to halt. Something was circling around behind the evergreens. Its feet, at least four that Bond could make out, made heavy impacts in the ground and its breath was deep, raspy and animalistic.

The creature snorted. Bond shuddered at the sound. It was like thunder.

Buffy quietly eased the strap from her shoulder and lowered the sack to the grass. As she reached down for the lantern, the great demon that had guarded the gateway to hell appeared suddenly in the opening, blocking the gateway out. It was a leathery giant, scaled like a crocodile, mottled white and blue with protrusions of horned bone all about its head and spine. Its legs were thick and held it high above the ground ending in reptilian claws. Behind it swung a thick muscled tail and its face was monstrous. All horned and snouted with glowing eyes of flame. It roared. A sound like the cry of a lion reverberating with a deep clicking. It was like nothing they'd ever heard.

Buffy stared. What had Giles referred to it as?… The Fiery Gehenna… Dragon's Breath… the flame of hell… It was a dragon! A freakin' full-sized fire-breathing dragon! The clues had been there, dammit!

Bond recalled what he'd said once to a young Honey Rider – 'There just aren't such things as dragons in the world'.

So much for that.

The huge head reared back and Buffy saw the cheeks swell with a gaseous vapour. She dropped the sack and spun. She slammed Bond, pushing him to the ground, and covered him as a gust of flame streamed out overhead, burning at her back and singeing the hairs on her hands.

Buffy shot to her feet the instant the flame drew back but, before she could even turn to find the lantern, the Slobbu's massive horned tail whipped around, struck her hard in her side and sent her breaking through the high wall of trees.

She crashed through branches and toppled to the grass on the other side. It took her a moment to get her bearings and she heard James' voice. He was beginning to say the incantation… maybe he was finally starting to believe…

Buffy scrambled through the base of the trees where the foliage wasn't so dense.

A great muscled reptilian paw slammed Bond into the grass and the claws dug through his black sweater, threatening to break the skin. Its weight began to press down on him and he lost the air from his lungs. It wouldn't be long, Bond realised, before his vision went and soon after, his life. Then it became worse as he saw the giant lizard's head looking down at him. Its impossibly large jaws opened, revealing a doubled set of razor teeth.

This was it. It was going to tear his damn head off. Wonderful, he thought, of all the places he'd travelled and all the villains he'd encountered… only to be killed by a beast not even real in Plainsville, California.

There came suddenly a bright heavenly light that startled him and the weight lifted from his chest. Air rushed into him again. When he turned, he saw Buffy Summers at the heart of the glow holding the beaming lantern aloft and the great beast was mesmerised by it. It seemed entranced. He clambered to his feet and at once couldn't reconcile what he was seeing.

It looked safe, its eyes lost in the flare of the lantern, and he approached it now. The thing that wasn't real. He reached out to the leathery skin, plated just like a crocodile, and touched it. It was real. The skin felt cold and plastic but the chest moved – heaving with each raspy breath. He moved up along the body. "Is it…a dinosaur?"

"Sure."

She was being facetious.

The blue tone of its skin was actually hard scales – its armour. The blade of Osiris! He recalled Giles saying there probably wasn't much time to say the words he had memorised. He looked at Buffy and her face was blank.

The torch quivered in her hands with some unseen pressure. She feared the influence of it wouldn't hold.

Bond, much to his own surprise feeling what was undeniably fear, began; "Somnus…Iter–"

"Wait…I think I have an idea…" Buffy's face intensified "It _is_ a very big powerful monster, after all…" She eyed the glowing lantern. It had Latin written along the stem meaning 'obey the light'. At least there was no fear of her forgetting that incantation. "This torch brings it under control… So, I'm wondering… Before we put the Slobbu down… can I tell it what to do?"

Bond turned and glared at her. How crazy did this girl need to be?

"We need the blade of Osiris first. James, quick, cut one of those scales off."

"Excuse me…?"

--

Half an hour later, Walther in hand, Bond found himself sneaking up the hill that led back to the castle of death. He checked his watch. It was almost 2am. He resisted the urge to check behind him and tried to focus on what was ahead. That's what Buffy had said to him in the apartment of Willow and a girl named Tara. They'd stopped off there on their way to the castle just as Willow had suggested and what he'd seen there had shattered all his concepts of reality. And now he was not able to look back at the one following him. And Buffy was with him, only now she was different. Since that apartment he was faced with a Buffy whose despair had been replaced by a gay and sprightly, all too chipper, attitude.

They reached the mound of earth, two dark shadows, and crouched to spy the castle once again.

"And there it is, that dank den of evil," Buffy announced. "Ooh, look at that."

Bond couldn't have missed it. The great fire-breathing dinosaur from the graveyard was doing exactly as Buffy had instructed and the castle was in ruins. The roof was caved in and the tower reduced to half, the rest in rubble across what had been the main door. The innards of the building now a blazing inferno, the creature flying circles overhead bombarding the place with waterfalls of fire and tearing at the brick with its claws.

Bond turned away and sank down behind the hill.

"That is one angry dragon," noted the Slayer. "Can we go in now? I wanna find the bones of the demon-kind and grind them all up to make my bread." She was rather enthused.

Bond rubbed his eyes. Tired eyes that were seeing too much strangeness and now his ears were being effected. "No," he said finally. "We wait. You take your orders from me now, remember that. You make no moves until I give you the word." He drew himself up for a second glance at the dragon's demolition work.

"Uh-huh, that's right. Got it. Anything you say, Bond James Bond."

"In that case be quiet before you–"

It was too late.

Bond glanced movement behind them and turned in time to see a dark bald figure and the thick end of a club.

CLONK

The world turned black and left him.

--

That old familiar nausea and dull pain at the base of his skull were the first signs that consciousness was returning before James Bond opened his eyes. His head pounded like a drum beat as he looked around.

Buffy was knelt patiently beside him with her legs drawn together and her hands on her thighs. She smiled at him. "I made no moves. Just like you said."

His head drummed on. The Walther was next to him on the ground.

"Welcome back, Mister Bond."

That voice. It was Big, standing on dark soil and leaning on a thick wooden cane, almost invisible in the night but for the white skull that painted his face. In his other hand he had Buffy's lantern, now unlit. To Big's left Bond saw Felix looking as deathly as before, to his right was Buffy's sister and one of his henchmen. He realised then that the drumming was not in his head at all as there were two more men in full voodoo garb hammering feverishly at a pair of bamboo drums, their grass skirts dancing as their dark bodies writhed.

He looked about and found he was at the cliff edge again not far from the castle, his back facing the long fall.

Why had they left him his gun? He reached for it and weighed it in his hand. Still loaded.

The drums fell silent.

"Oh, thank God," the girl beside him muttered. "I hate jungle music."

Bond gave her a sideways look. She was becoming a nuisance.

"I did not have to wait long for your return," declared Big. "Though, destroying my castle was perfectly rude. Now I may choose to administer death by dragon." He held the lantern up. "It seems this device will allow me to control the beast."

Bond's heart sank.

Big read the words that ran along the stem and aimed the device to the sky. "Pareo Luminarium!" The torch ignited and bathed the area in whiteness.

Bond put out his hands to save his eyes and squinted through the glow. Soon he saw the dark shape in the distance as it grew to block out the stars. The dragon was coming, all wings, claws and fire…

It swooped in over Big's head with a roar and landed like a bomb before him.

Big spoke his command; "Kill them!"

The beast drew in its breath and prepared to toast Bond and his inanimate sidekick. And then he remembered, and hoped to God what he was about to do wasn't as pointless as his mind said it should be…

"Somnus Iterum Bestia!"

The torch went dead and the huge horned dragon collapsed in a heap.

Bond watched its heavy chest heaving slowly as it slept now in front of him. It had worked. By God, magic was real! With renewed confidence, he stood and signalled the girl to follow. "The word is given," he whispered and moved out from behind the sleeping giant.

Big tossed the lantern away. "So be it! To the original plan!" He gave the signal and his three henchmen moved into formation.

James Bond wasted no time. He brought the gun to bear and fired three times. Two of the men took a bullet in the head and the third tried to dodge only to take it over the collarbone. All three dropped to the dirt.

"That all the gang you have left, Big? What happened to your Cuban friend and the shadow man?"

Big eyed the fallen with a sinister smile. "The Cuban and the Wraith have fulfilled their commission to me, Mister Bond, and have departed. But I still have these three instruments to do my work."

With that, Bond watched as the three men, looking nothing more than annoyed and mildly hurt, stood up before his eyes despite their fatal wounds. Then they smiled and it became clear.

"Vamps," said Buffy. "A Slayer's bane."

Something sparked in Bond's mind. Slayer's bane… Vampire's bane…

"It really is futile to point a gun at me, Bond. I cannot die. And my name… is Baron Samedi!"

The three vampires attacked.

"Allow me!" Buffy did a gleeful skip.

Bond let his Walther drop to the ground. "I've got it." He reached under his left arm, drew Harris's modified HK pistol from the Safariland shoulder holster, and let it speak with an electric bang.

The first vampire took the bullet mid-run in the chest and instantly eroded before Bond's eyes into fiery ash. James Bond was no longer surprised that these unbelievable things worked. He fired again and again until four silver hollow points of garlic were spent and the three undead henchmen were destroyed.

Big cocked one brow. "I must say I am impressed. You have adapted to the situation better than I could have feared. And so, as promised, you shall each die at the hands of the one closest to you. Goodbye, Mister Bond." He gave a slight bow. "Miss Summers." His eyes were filled with satisfaction. "Revenge, as you called it, has been a pleasure." He planted the thick cane in front of him and rested on it to enjoy the show.

Dawn hissed, her eyes first registering Bond's deadly weapon, then clocking the Slayer. She ran quickly for cover behind the dragon's body.

"She's mine!" Buffy gave chase around the other side.

Bond was left facing his old friend Felix. Poor old Felix.

"Go on," the Baron urged. "Devour the man's brain. Eat him alive as I observe."

With that, Felix slowly began to shuffle across the dirt toward Bond. James lowered the gun to his side. How could Felix be dead when he seemed so… alive?

Leiter groaned as he moved up to Bond, the sound a hollow dead sound.

"Stop there, Felix."

He didn't stop. Bond raised the gun again.

"Felix. If there's anything of you left then stop at once."

Leiter still came.

"I don't want to hurt you, Felix, so stop there, dammit!"

Leiter's rotting hands grasped for the gun and Bond pulled it back. With his other hand he pushed forward and held Felix away. But when his friend suddenly tried to bite at the hand that held him Bond lost control. As a phobic person might pull away from a spider seen crawling beside their hand, James suddenly pulled himself clear, leaving Felix free to move in. Bond struggled as the dead man pulled at his hair with both strong hands and dragged his head towards his mouth. The smell of death made Bond gag and fear made his next move happen almost by reflex. The gun spat twice and the attack stopped.

Bond gasped, surprised by what he'd done. Felix, however, was still standing. And, after a moment, he reached out again to feast on Bond's flesh.

-

Dawn circled around the sleeping dragon and waited for the Slayer. Her sister was now her ultimate enemy and she was glad of it. Finally she could repay Buffy for all those faked years of kneeling in her shadow. No more being number two to the almighty chosen one. Now she would be the famous and revered one – the one who killed the Slayer!

Buffy appeared with her trusted wooden stake and Dawn leapt for it. It was a bad move for, as soon as her hands were on the stake, Buffy's free hand chopped her in the neck with impossible strength and Dawn crumpled to the ground.

Buffy sighed and looked down at the unconscious vampire. "Silly Dawny. I have orders to take you alive."

-

James Bond wrestled with the zombie that had once been Felix and managed to tie his leg behind the creature's knee. With one swift manoeuvre, he pulled it to the ground. The hands that gripped him were clamped to his clothing so hard that Bond was taken down with it.

Desperate, he held the head down with all his power and fixed the barrel of the gun against Leiter's temple.

The trigger felt heavy against his quivering finger. He couldn't pull it. He just couldn't do it. Felix may be dead already, in fact he could no longer deny the fact, but he couldn't shoot his own friend through the head. His mind raced. Eight bullets in total, two bullets left. Destroy the brain. The gun wasn't his and it couldn't be traced to him. But it wasn't just about explaining this, was it? It was about living with it afterwards.

Bond felt a hand rest over his and he looked down to see Felix had steadied the nervous hand that held the weapon. The zombie groaned a much sadder groan than before. The dead eyes looked to him almost… almost pleadingly. As if to say 'Kill me, James. Do it. Please.'

And so he did. James Bond drew himself to his knees and fixed the gun in both hands. Felix didn't struggle as the weapon levelled with his head. "Rest now, old friend." Bond fired once.

Baron Samedi groaned with displeasure and headed for the British spy while he was still in mourning. He'd have to do the work himself. Somehow, killing Bond with his own hands might even be more rewarding. He was almost on top of Bond when both men heard the scraping sound of Buffy dragging Dawn's unconscious frame toward them.

"One down, you to go," she said to the Baron. "And I'm allowed to send you back to hell, tubby." She released the vampire and put up her dukes. "C'mon then, big boy."

Bond locked Big in his sights. "Don't try it. It's over."

Samedi looked at him with pity. "Your vampire killer won't do any more good than that Walther PPK." He turned back to see the Slayer already making her move.

With lightening speed for a big man, the Baron whipped his club around and cracked Buffy in the head. The Slayer splashed out in the dirt and spasmed.

Bond looked at the HK pistol. Only one bullet left and one vampire remaining. He holstered it and retrieved his own gun from the ground.

Samedi stood over Buffy Summers, the most feared and notorious of all the Slayers, and bashed his club into her skull until it dented, sagged and finally came loose and separated from her body. He looked down at her in surprise. Then he felt the burning prick of bullets as Bond fired the remainder of the Walther's clip into his back.

The Baron staggered back and, momentarily overcome by the sensation, he dropped to one knee.

Bond was done. He slipped his gun into his trousers and welcomed the burning heat of the barrel against his leg. He could feel. He was alive. And now he looked to Mr Big with pity. "For all your planning and intellect, Baron, or Big, or whoever you think you are, it all comes down to this moment. The moment you failed to see my true attack for the second time. For the last time."

The Baron stared at him, unsure what to make of Bond's threat. And then he looked back to the image that had first disturbed him… The dead Slayer. Her head was crushed and dislodged from it's body but… now he saw it clearly… the plastic skull… the circuits… the wiring…

A robot! How the hell…

He felt two thin soft arms wrap around him from behind and in one of the hands on the end of one of those arms was a scale from the dragon's armour. In that moment he realised who the dragon was and what that sharp scale represented. His mouth opened but he had no time for words.

Buffy Summers, the true Vampire Slayer, dressed in one of Willow's old orange woollen sweaters and tight green pants, held herself against the Baron's back and raised the blade of Osiris. "Mine is the last resurrection you'll ever see," she whispered in his ear with all the hate within her. "You only die twice remember?"

Baron Samedi, the master of resurrection, had only a moment to feel the blade pierce his undying heart before it beat for the last time. The pain was beyond any he'd felt before but he still held on to the glimmer of hope that he could fall now at the Slayer's feet and play dead until she had gone. He fell back and laid himself out in his death pose. But hope left him when Buffy appeared over him with a great big gleaming axe. His horror was short-lived and his plea of mercy cut off along with his head. The axe fell and Mr Big was no more.

Buffy sagged and threw down Tara's axe. The easy part was over. She looked at Bond.

"Is it finished?" he asked. "I mean really this time?"

"Yeah," she replied flatly. "He's dead."

Bond nodded with satisfaction before removing the HK from his holster. "Felix is gone too. Finally. That leaves just one more." He looked past her.

Buffy turned to see Dawn laid out in the dirt beginning to stir. Bond had raised his weapon – the gun that could kill vampires. She stepped into his line of sight and shot him down with a terrible glare. "Pull that trigger and believe me I will kill you," she stated.

The threat sounded real and so Bond reluctantly put the weapon back to bed. He watched her as she went over to her sister who was slowly coming out of sleep. Buffy knelt beside Dawn and ran her fingers softly through her brown hair. Dawn turned groggily to see Buffy there and smiled for a moment. Then she remembered. A low hiss began to escape her lips and the Slayer cracked her fist across Dawn's face, sending her back to sleep like the dragon just feet away.

The easy part was over. The hardest part was yet to come.

James Bond raised himself up and went to Big's body where the head rested loose. There was no blood. He reached down and lifted the large dark head in his hands. It was heavy and the skulled face looked peaceful yet still as menacing as it had ever been in life. So Bond took it to the cliff edge and tossed it down into the water where it would be fish food once again.

After a time he looked around to see Buffy walking away to the slope that led to the beach with Dawn in her arms.

James dragged the heavy lifeless body of Felix Leiter up and over his shoulder. It was time to call Jack Wade and take Felix home.


	7. Goodbye, Mr Bond Hello Peaches

**- **_**You Only Die Twice**_** -**

----------

_Goodbye, Mr Bond – Hello Peaches_ / 00**7**

Two days had passed since the battle against Baron Samedi and now Buffy was standing outside her home in the night with Willow watching James Bond, man of mystery, as he packed his case into his rented Saab. The man hadn't said a great deal since the events of that night. He'd seen too much of her world, Buffy figured. He had called his friend Jack and had Felix's body taken away. It was now on a private jet (CIA, she guessed) to Los Angeles and Bond was to drive back there for the funeral before returning to his spy job in London.

Last night Buffy had had to go back with Xander and his jeep to tow the sleeping dragon back to the crypt. Giles hadn't been exactly impressed with her for using the Slobbu as an attack fleet, but it had worked out and he couldn't deny that. Xander had made a new timber door for the Constantine crypt and he and Giles were there now fitting it. The Buffybot was in a worse state than ever and Willow had concluded it was unsalvageable. She could fix basic problems but the microprocessor was smashed and only Warren had had the skills to replace it.

Xander had been to Willy's just as Buffy had told him but Willy insisted that Spike was out of town. After some mild persuasion, the snivelling barman had spilled to Xander that they should be more worried about the new boss in town – Mister Blood. They still had nothing on this guy.

"I got through to Station J," Willow said to her, bringing her back into the moment. "Blade _was_ in Tokyo but they believe he fled over here to the States. I'm sorry, but… current location unknown."

Buffy acknowledged sadly. Down in her basement under the house on Revello Drive, chained to the wall on the wooden bench there, was her sister, Dawn. The vampire. One of Blade's kind.

She remembered the last time she'd been down those basement stairs into her sister's prison. She remembered what Dawn had said…

"I'm still me, Buffy. Can't you see? I'm still Dawn. There's no demon in me… my body's just… different now. I'm just… more thirsty now…"

And then she'd said…

"I need to drink, Buffy, you're killing me." She'd tried to break free. "Let me go!"

"I can't, Dawn. You have to stay here. I _will_ fix you!"

"You'll _kill_ me!" she'd spat back. "All the years I've had to put up with you as a stupid little weak human and now you're still trying to keep me as your pet! You make me want to vomit! You always did but now I have the strength to say it! Now I have the strength to fight back! I'll kill you, Slayer! I swear I _will_ kill you!"

And she remembered her own tears.

Bond opened the driver's door of the Saab and looked back at Buffy as she stood there in the yard. His face said a lot. He'd come there looking for his friend and he'd found him with her help and now he could take him home. They'd been through a lot in just a couple of days, had quite an adventure together. Now he was leaving. And he was thankful to her for everything.

"There's…something about that man…" Buffy muttered absently.

"A tall, dark, handsome, mysterious secret agent," Willow remarked. "He's double-oh-heaven." Buffy hinted a smile and Will's eyes went wide. "You…didn't? Did you?"

"No!" Buffy insisted quickly. "He's…old."

"Angel was older."

James Bond slipped into his car and drove away.

"What now?" Will asked her.

"I have to talk to Dawn again."

"Don't do it to yourself, Buffy. No matter what she says it isn't really her. Not anymore."

Buffy shrugged. What if it really was?

----------

"Who's there?" Dawn leaned forward until the chains at her wrists pulled taught. It was night outside and the basement was black. With her heightened smell she detected something. Death was in the room. And her new improved vision picked up movement in the farthest corner beyond the laundry machines. Someone was definitely there. "Wait… I know you…"

"Lots of people know me," replied the strong English voice. "Some know me as Mister Blood." The man in black came forward until she could see his every detail. "But you… you know me by another name, Pet."

"…Spike!"

He reached out and caressed her soft hair and smiled down at her.

"Buffy's here, Spike! She's trying to kill me! She's a bitch! I hate her!"

"Shh, shh. Don't worry about her. Everything's better now, Peaches. I've come to rescue you."

Dawn's face exploded into a grin. "I love you, Spike."

He smiled back and took hold of the chains with his powerful hands. He couldn't have Buffy… so he'd take Dawn instead!

By the time the Slayer returned to that basement all that was left were the broken chains and an empty bench. Her sister, her love, her hope… was gone.

----------

James Bond, comfortable in his British Airways seat, looked at the golden gourd on the chair beside him. He was glad not to have to make a false report about his latest adventure to M. Lying to the CIA – that was always easy – but, for M, he had simply been on vacation. On vacation to the theme park of horrors!

The man with the golden gourd buckled himself in and sat back for the flight home.

But there was one last thing Bond had yet to discover…

There is a thing called 'Sunnydale syndrome'. The unexplainable and bizarre events that regularly occur in that American town had a habit of clouding the minds of the so-called grown-ups there until they become aware only that 'something' happened, the details of which lost in the deep dark places of the hidden mind. Bond didn't know it yet, but soon – by the time he reached London, in fact – he would also fall victim to it.

* * *

**S**ecret **A**gent **S**layer shall return…in:

_Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the Alien Tripods from Outer Space_


End file.
